


Bite the Bullet

by thatmasquedgirl



Series: Monsters in the Mirror [4]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: (Felicity is Deathstroke), (I mean it's Deathstroke!Felicity), (I still question my life choices), (did I mention this is 50 pages long), (in case you were wondering), (it's kind of what she does), (still angsty), (this is p much what Monsters is all about tbh), (yes that's right), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dark, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Humor, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, BAMF Felicity Smoak, But I honestly have no idea where to begin, Canonical Character Death, Chaptered, Dark, Deathstroke!Felicity, Drinking, Drinking & Talking, Drunken Confessions, Drunken Shenanigans, Drunkenness, Episode: s01e06 Legacies, Excessive Drinking, F/M, Felicity Smoak Has PTSD, HELLO AND WELCOME TO MONSTERS, Heavy Angst, Heavy Drinking, Humor, I want to tag this shit, Inappropriate Humor, It's Not Paranoia If They're Really Out To Get You, Mentions of Felicity's Past Relationships, Mentions of Felicity's backstory, Minor Character Death, My three favorite tags:, Oh wait how could I forget, Oliver Queen & Felicity Smoak friendship, Oliver Queen Has PTSD, Oliver Queen/Felicity Smoak Angst, POV Felicity Smoak, POV John Diggle, POV Oliver Queen, POV Outsider, POV Tommy Merlyn, Paranoia, Past Abuse, Past Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Roy Harper, Slow Burn, So here's the deal, Swords, THERE IS ALSO A LOT OF ALCOHOL THIS TIME, That fire Oliver tried to start on the island, The one that served as Slade's entertainment, There's A Tag For That, This is gonna be a long set of tags brace yourselves, Tommy Merlyn is Alive, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Vigilantism, burn so slow it's like, oh yeah i forgot, there is a lot of angst, vigilante!Felicity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-11-19 14:13:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 26,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11315064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatmasquedgirl/pseuds/thatmasquedgirl
Summary: Oliver and Felicity's mission goes awry.  It goes uphill from there.Another Monsters adventure, this time involving the salmon ladder, a bank robbery, and way too much alcohol.Takes place directly after "Raining Pitchforks."





	1. Night Shift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felicity and Oliver make a late-night run to the bank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to Monsters, y'all!
> 
> The most incredible thing about this fic is that it took me a week. Seriously. I found a start a few weeks ago and I wrote about 25k words onto it. I have literally no idea what happened. That's how Monsters works: it shows up when you least expect it and then stalks you like Deathstroke!Felicity until the story is finished.
> 
> It was an absolute blast to write. I regret nothing.
> 
> Reads are awesome. Reviews are awesome, too. I always love talking to you guys, but I also understand if you don't have the time. Either way, thank you! :)
> 
>  **9-28-17 Update:** Added cover art made by the great AlexiaBlackbriar13. :)

 

* * *

 

There's very little Oliver likes more than the moments before a fight.  In some ways, it's the only kind of calm that doesn't make him nervous; this he knows how to do.  For the last five years, this has been his life: the rush of completing a mission, adrenaline singing through his veins.  They thought he would be glad for the peace and quiet after the island, but a fight is familiar.  There's no time to think; instead, the goal is survival.  After five years where peace and quiet were the enemy, they only make him wary now.

Quiet just means the worst is yet to come.

A hand falls on his shoulder, covered by a black leather glove.  For a moment, he's struck by how dainty and small her hands are, yet he's watched her use those hands to snap a man's neck before.  Felicity is a dichotomy to him:  hard and soft, unbreakable and fragile, strong and delicate—often all at once.  Few people manage to see all parts of her personality; they don’t know to connect the vivacious woman he’s come to know with the creature that stalks the streets at night.

"How long do we wait?" she growls out under the deep, ominous synthesizer.  "There were two other targets on the list—they could be at either of those locations, too."  Oliver turns to face her, and is met with the black-and-gold mask, her head tilting to the side as she drums her fingers against her leg.  "I mean, this bank was the most likely target—the one I'd pick—but that doesn't mean anything."  He can practically _feel_ her smile under the mask. "Most criminals aren't as smart as I am."

"Most _people_ aren't as smart as you are," Oliver retorts, a hint of a smile playing at his lips.  "Even if we miss tonight, the bank they hit next will give us more insight into their methods."  He flashes her a grin, this one larger but just as genuine.  "The most we're risking is an illness for being out in this cold night air for too long."

"My immune system has been tested by seven months in a nasty shipping container," Felicity responds in a dry tone.  "I'll take my chances with the weather.  And you survived five years without modern medicine and lived to tell the tale.  I think we can risk it."

Chuckling, Oliver replies, "My thoughts exactly."  A moment of quiet passes between them, the silence comfortable, before he calls to her, "Thank you."  She turns to him, head tilting in confusion. "For what you said to Tommy earlier tonight.  You didn't have to defend me."

"Oliver, you don't have to thank me for stating the truth," Felicity replies, sounding both fond and annoyed at the same time.  He seems to be the only person she uses that tone on, and it automatically brings the corners of his mouth up.  "I believe in what you're doing.  So do you.  That's why I chose to help you with this."  A muffled sound, like a snort, comes from behind the mask.  "Even if you _are_ an idealist," she adds, rolling her blue eyes.  "You have no idea how much I hate idealists.  Always trying to save a world beyond saving."

"Yet you're standing here beside me," Oliver can't help but point out to her. "I think that makes you an idealist, too." It seems to be a tender subject, but he can't stop himself from teasing her, even if she _could_ slice him in half. At most, it seems to make her more animated—a side of Felicity that he enjoys.

She scoffs, the closest thing she's ever given to a laugh.  "I'm just a pissed-off IT girl with a pair of swords," Felicity corrects, crossing her arms over her chest.  "You might be here to save the world, but all I want is vengeance."  With another dry huff of laughter, she adds, "Maybe they named me well after all.  Vengeance of Starling, indeed."

As he chuckles again, Oliver catches a movement out of the corner of his eye.  Sure enough, the group of bandits is on the move, stepping out of an unmarked black van.  He glances over to Felicity, but her eyes are firmly upon him, not glancing down.  “Gang’s on the move,” he points out when she doesn’t look.

She rolls her eyes in response, sighing.  "Do they even know they're a stereotype?" Felicity asks him in a disparaging tone.  "An unmarked panel van parked across the street from a bank robbery?  They might as well place a blinking, neon sign over the top that reads, _I solemnly swear I'm up to no good_."  He blinks at the statement, and she rolls her eyes again.  "It's called _pop culture_ , Oliver.  You are definitely borrowing my Harry Potter books now."  Turning away from the scene below, Felicity places a hand to her forehead, clearly disappointed in both him and their thieves.  "It's like all the best clichés for armed robbery got together, had a baby, and called it the Royal Flush Gang."

Because the statement is a little hypocritical, he deadpans, "This coming from a woman dressed like she came out of the pages of a comic book."

With another eye roll that looks eerie under the mask, she reaches behind her to touch the hilt of one sword, fidgeting. Like him, Felicity isn't happy unless she's in a fight.  "If this was a comic book," she retorts, "I'd be wearing a push-up bra, fishnets, and a costume that barely covered my ass."  Oliver nearly chokes on his own tongue; for the sake of his own sanity, he should _not_ let that image linger in his mind (though he doesn't have much say in the matter).  "And _you're_ one to talk, Hawkeye."

Oliver opens his mouth to ask who, exactly, this Hawkeye is, but an alarm at the bank below answers for him.  He stands a little straighter, and Felicity’s posture stiffens immediately.  Before either can speak, he fires a grappling arrow into the roof of the bank and ties the other end to a chimney behind them.  In a silent offer, he holds a hand out to Felicity.

“Oh, _no_ ,” she declares, backing away while waving her hands.  “Absolutely not.  You are _not_ getting me to rappel down on a cable and an arrow, Oliver.  The last time I let you swing me off a building, I got shot and you had to play doctor with me.”  He can sense the moment her words catch up to her.  “That’s not what I meant, but it doesn’t matter.”  She crosses her arms with finality, in that way she does when she thinks she’s going to win an argument.  “Thanks, but no thanks.”

He watches her for a moment, studying her.  Even in the short time he’s known her, Oliver has learned she’s always ready for a new experience, always ready to take risks.  Her eyes flick to the roof of the building and back to her shoes, and the realization hits him like a bolt of lightning.  Slow steps on the rooftop.  Not looking over the edge.  And she never lets him use grappling arrows if there’s another way.

“Felicity,” he calls to her quietly.  Her eyes meet his at the gentle tone, though they narrow a moment later.  “Are you afraid of heights?”

“Yes! Okay!” she snaps at him, wrapping her arms around her middle.  “I’m acrophobic, alright?  Every time I look over the edge I go dizzy!  And congratulations, you figured it out, Columbo!”  His eyes widen at her outburst, and she deflates.  “I didn’t mean to snap at you.  I just… I don’t like it.  Being weak, I mean.”  She shakes her head.  “My first mission, a guy tried to throw me off a thirty-story building.  I’ve been afraid ever since.”

Oliver sighs.  “Storms are mine,” he offers in a quiet voice.  Her eyes snap up to meet his.  “I’m not afraid, but… storms bring back memories of the island.  Sometimes it feels like I’m still back there.   I can’t tell what’s real and what isn’t.  Friends look like enemies.”  He motions toward her.  “That’s why I came to see you that night after Tommy found out.  I… I wanted to be with someone who could defend themselves, just in case I…”  He can’t bring himself to finish the thought—or to tell her about how he attacked his mother that first night.

“I did that, too,” she whispers, sliding a hand on his shoulder again.  “It gets better.  Well, it did for _me_ , anyway.  Especially after I started doing this.”  She winks at him.  “You know what might make us feel better?  Kicking some badly-clichéd criminal ass.”

This time when he offers a hand, she takes it, wrapping her arms around his neck.  When she swallows hard, his ears pick up the sound over the wind.  “Hold on to me tight?” she asks, her voice vulnerable for a rare moment.

Wrapping his arm around her, Oliver promises in a low voice, “Always.”

Felicity yelps when he launches the two of them from the rooftop.  Seconds later, their feet land on the roof of the bank, and she bends over, placing her hands on her knees.  He can’t help but notice that they’re shaking.

“Are you all right?” comes out of his mouth before he can stop it.

Leveling a look at him, Felicity mutters something about fear.  Even with her mask in place, he can tell he’s on the receiving end of her stony glare.  “I imagined saying that to you under different circumstances, you know,” she offers after a moment.  When he can only blink, she repeats, “‘Hold on to me tight’?”

He can only gape at her in response.  Her comment about him wearing a suit when they took down Deadshot was one thing, but this is another matter entirely.  Attraction is one thing, but this means she’s thought about far different situations.  When he swallows hard, it has _nothing_ to do with a sudden nervousness around her.

Oliver would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about it, too.

For some reason, she decides to take pity on him, studying the roof under her heavy combat boots.  “Let me guess,” she remarks in a dry tone, “our point of entry is this skylight.”  She mutters some impolite words in Mandarin when he doesn’t respond.  “If we were meant to be airborne, we would have wings,” she mutters under her breath.  Sighing, she holds a hand out.  “Hand me the binary.”

Though he pulls the cutting device out of his pocket, Oliver hesitates before giving it to her.  “Felicity, if you want to find another way in—“

Instead of allowing him to finish, she rips the binary out of his hand.  “I don’t want to be afraid anymore, Oliver,” Felicity answers with a finality he doesn’t question.  “If this is the entry method you selected, we’ll use it.”  Without waiting for a response, she starts using the laser to cut through glass.

He nods once anyway, attaching a suction handle to the glass as she cuts.  Thirty seconds later, he lifts the glass out of their newly made hole, sliding it back.  Felicity releases a heavy sigh as he attaches a cable to one of the brick exhaust vents, but doesn’t say anything.

Seconds later, she’s sliding down it as though she does this every day.

Oliver is about to join her when he realizes that the cable provides a new exit for an agile criminal.  After a moment of thought, he pulls the cable back through their entrance and jumps through the hole himself.

For the life of him, Oliver doesn’t understand her aversion to heights.  As long as he has his bow in hand and a grappling arrow nearby, the freefall is almost exhilarating, sending adrenaline coursing through his veins.  The sensation used to make him jittery, but now he uses that extra focus and energy as an advantage in a fight—or a sixty-foot drop.

What must be seconds feels like hours as he aims at the railing on the second floor balcony.  He doesn’t hurry, taking his time to line up the shot before firing.  It attaches just seconds before it needs to, jerking him to a halt just before his feet touch the ground.

As his boots touch solid ground again, Felicity calls, “Show-off.”

Oliver only grins at her.  “We should probably split up,” he suggests in a low voice.  “Vault is north, but the safety deposit boxes are south.”  He hesitates before adding, “Just be careful.  There are three of them, but only two of us.”

“Hardly seems like a fair fight,” Felicity answers.  Her eyes brighten with a sinister new light, and he knows from experience that look accompanies a predatory smile.  Despite how well he knows her, a shiver still threatens to creep up his spine as she pulls a sword loose.  “I promise I’ll be gentle.”

She’s already started toward the north side of the building before Oliver calls, “Deathstroke?”  She turns back to him, sword gleaming in the moonlight reflected off the windows.  “We take them alive.”

He hasn’t had the heart to tell her about Derek Reston, or the fact that his family lost everything because of Robert Queen’s choices.  Something about that makes Oliver feel like his father was just as much a criminal as the men she hunts every night.  Because of that, he can’t let her kill these people who made poor choices after having everything ripped away from them.

Felicity’s blue eyes almost look black under the mask, but they turn to the color of midnight when they narrow at him.  After making an unimpressed noise in her throat, she accuses, “You just like to suck the fun out of everything, don’t you?”

When she’s met with his glare, they lock into a stony silence.  After a moment, she concedes with a sigh and a roll of her eyes.  “Fine, no one dies.”  She shrugs before walking away.  “They can be short a few appendages and still be alive.”

Oliver growls under his breath before barking, “No maiming, either.”

As he starts in the opposite direction, he hears her reply through their comm link, “What do you want me to do?  Politely suggest they put down their automatic weapons?”  There’s a pause.  “You’ve never had a problem with how I work before, but now you’re tying my hands.  What aren’t you telling me?”

Sighing, he admits, “I… I’m not sure I’m ready to talk about it yet, but I promise to tell you later.”  His breath leaves him in a frustrated huff as he nocks his bow.  “I know I haven’t earned your trust, but can you just… follow my lead on this one?”

“Of course,” is her instant reply.  Oliver blinks twice in response; nothing in his pseudo-friendship with Felicity thus far has indicated she’d agree so easily.  “No killing.  No maiming—unless they really piss me off.  If they ask for a severed arm, they get a severed arm.”  She huffs.  “I had to jump through a _skylight_ , Arrow.   _Someone_ is getting cut tonight.”

“Just as long as it isn’t me,” Oliver replies.

In a voice that sounds darker under her modulator, Felicity deadpans, “I haven’t decided yet.”

 

* * *

 

Rolling her shoulders, Felicity tries to think of a time in her life when she was ever this bored.  After a moment of deliberation, she comes up with nothing.  The bank—a low-security, mom-and-pop operation that was due for a security overhaul four years ago—is deserted, with no signs that anyone might be lurking around.  Well, except for the blaring alarm in the background.

It grows louder the further she presses on, and she refrains from sticking her fingers in her ears.  “It’s going to be a miracle if I don’t have hearing damage after this,” she mutters under her breath.  In all the gear she carries, ear plugs aren’t on the list.  She blows out a long breath.  First clichéd bank robbers and dropping three stories to the ground, and now blaring sirens that do nothing but annoy the hell out of people.

“I’ll say this, Arrow,” she comments over her comm link, “you know how to show a girl a good time.  Heights and blaring alarms and criminals who don’t know that hockey masks went out of style in the nineties.  I’ll be so excited to see another Yakuza guy with a machete that I might actually hug him before cutting his heart out with his own knife.”

Honestly, Felicity isn’t sure why she’s trying to keep up their usual banter now.  Oliver’s been weird tonight, quiet—well, quieter—in that strange way of his that would make a deserted island seem noisy by comparison.  While she’s used to his hyperactive sense of responsibility, she can feel there’s something about this that he isn’t telling her.  He isn’t usually willing to share his burdens, but this is different.  She could press him and pull every detail out of him like a CIA-trained interrogator, but she can’t bring herself to take that from him.

After having so much control ripped away, secrets are power.

To her surprise he replies anyway:  “What _is_ your idea of a good time?”

She has to think about it.  “Sitting in front of my television with a Tarentino flick, and a pint of mint chip or a huge glass of merlot,” Felicity decides after some deliberation.  “Or in the ring with a sparring partner, letting off some steam after a hard day.”  She bites down on her lip before deciding to release one secret of her own.  “I have a…”  Friend?  Acquaintance?  Neither word sounds right.  “…A guy,” she finishes lamely, “who knows who I am and what I do.  We go to the gym and try to beat the hell out of each other.”  This time her sigh is weighted with the pressure of being out every night.  “It’s been a while since I’ve done either of those things.”

“You said you wanted to learn how to use a bow,” he reminds her.  “I wouldn’t mind learning how to use a blade, either.”

Felicity snorts.  “Then go pick up a letter opener.  You aren’t touching _my_ swords until I can trust you with them.”

There’s a long pause, and she can feel Oliver smiling at the other end of the bank.  “Are you implying I can’t handle a sword?”  There’s a challenge lingering in his voice.

Felicity is all too ready to meet it.  “I’m saying you couldn’t handle one of my swords with both hands and a copy of _Way of the Samurai_.  They’re Japanese steel.  I’d say they’re razor sharp, but if you tried to shave with them, you’d probably take off part of your jaw.”

As she twists around a corner, Felicity breathes a sigh of relief.  The siren is louder here, but she’s certain that the box in front of her is the alarm control.  “Hold on—I think I’ve found the panel to turn off the noise.  It’s going to feel good to hear myself think again.”

She uses her blade to separate the panel from the wall, disconnecting a few wires.  A moment later, blessed silence descends upon the room.  Felicity sighs, a smile taking over her lips.  “And Deathstroke said, ‘Let there be silence,’” she intones, “and all was quiet.”

“You saved me a lot of trouble,” comes a reply.  Felicity whirls on the spot to find a hockey mask complete with the image of a playing card—jack of spades—staring back at her.  His tone is friendly, but the assault rifle pointed at her is less so.  “I probably wouldn’t have been able to shut the damn thing off.”  He shrugs.  “I hope you aren’t here to take our score.  I’d hate to have to shoot you after you helped us out.”

She may have cut the siren, but the damage has already been done—and she has little doubt it’s calling out to the police department now.  He’d probably be less thrilled to know that, but Felicity isn’t in the sharing mood, anyway.  “You must be new here,” she decides after a moment of deliberation.  With a wave, she clarifies, “I’m the friendly, neighborhood vigilante.  The papers call me Deathstroke—or Vengeance of Starling, when they’re feeling generous.  Been active for three years.”  She offers a dramatic bow.  “Slayer of men, slinger of swords, the fear of criminals everywhere.  Also, not a thief.”  He only blinks at her several times, and her mouth falls into a scowl.  “You’re not conveying the proper amount of fear.”

Silence falls between them, and she hears Oliver call in her ear, “I’m on my way.”  She’d tell him not to bother if she could without alerting the bank robber to her partner’s presence in the building.  A gangly young adult male with an AK-47 isn’t on her list of fears.

“Are you serious right now?” her young bank robber demands, voice cracking.  Felicity’s eyes widen at the sound.  God, how old is this kid?  He sounds twelve.

“Dead serious,” she assures him.  “As dead serious as most of my victims.”  She pauses to think about that before correcting, “Well, actually, they’re better described as ‘seriously dead.’”  She motions to him.  “Fortunately for you, I’m not here to kill you, though.  I slay monsters, not bank-robbing twelve-year-olds.”

He aims his gun a little higher.  “I hope you realize you brought a sword to a gunfight,” he stutters out with bravado more false than one of Oliver’s media smiles.   _That’s_ more like it—there’s the fear she wants to evoke.  Of course, it’s probably because he thinks she’s insane, but Felicity can work with that.  “Are you crazy or just stupid?”

“Maybe I’m just really confident,” she suggests.

She can see it in his eyes the moment he’s interested in squeezing the trigger.  Knowing who would win in a fast draw from this distance, Felicity ducks behind a nearby desk a fraction of a second before gunshots explode into the silence.  Bullets tear into the wood of the desk, but, fortunately, he doesn’t seem to be using armor-piercing rounds.  For the very first time tonight, Felicity is glad she isn’t facing her usual targets—if she had, she would already be ribbons by this point.

Her comm crackles in the cacophony of bullets.  “Tell me what’s happening,” Oliver demands in his growly voice.  Though it’s hard to tell under the modulator, Felicity would swear that’s fear playing underneath his tone.

“I’m pinned,” she informs him in a hushed tone, trying to resist the urge to swear in multiple languages.  She gives up on that a moment later when a lucky shot tears through her calf.  So much for that new dress she bought that falls to her knees—looks like she’ll have to wait another two weeks before she’ll be able to wear it.  “I’ll be fine,” she assures him before he can ask.  “Just find the others before they find _me_.”

A moment later, silence descends again as the kid stops firing.  Felicity peeks around the corner of the desk, watching as he slowly closes in on the desk from the opposite side.  She stays low, grinding her teeth against the agony in her leg as she slips around the desk.  Though he might shuffle, her steps make no sound, and she closes in on him.

The tip of her sword touches the ground as she slinks behind him, and with a smooth motion, she severs his Achilles tendon.  The boy crumples with a cry, but Felicity just rolls her eyes as she shoves the blade against his throat.  It’s a minor wound at most; they can reattach it at the hospital.

His hand goes for the gun, but she only shoves the blade further into his throat.  Blood wells up from the cut.  “Ah, ah, ah,” she chides.  “As much as I like my toys, there happens to be one too many at this party.  Let’s save the guns for when you’re actually old enough to buy one, shall we?”

The kid withdraws his hand, and Felicity takes the opportunity to kick the gun away from him.  “Good boy.”  It causes him to make a sound in his throat, and she makes a face under her mask.  “You’re very fortunate you’re so young.  If you weren’t,” she warns him in a low voice, “I would have already disemboweled you.”  He swallows audibly.  “If I ever see you committing a criminal act again, I might not be so nice.”

With a lazy flick of her sword, she cuts the strap holding his mask in place.  It falls into his lap as he lets loose a squeak, and his shoulders shake.  “I find myself in a unique situation,” Felicity continues in a conversational tone.  “I can’t have you running around—you might alert the rest of your gang, and then where would I be?  The ideal option would be to kill you.”  She swings the blade away, only to press it back to his neck, and he whimpers.   _There’s_ the fear she’s familiar with.  “Unfortunately, I can’t do that, either.  If I kill you, how will you ever learn to stay away from banks?”  She thinks about that for a moment.  “I could always slice your legs off.  Or cut out your tongue.  Or both.  I think that would upset the Arrow, though.  He’s a bit of a goody two-shoes.”  She sighs.  “I guess I’ll have to settle for _this_.”  She brings the hilt of her sword down against the top of his head, and the boy crumples immediately.

Felicity pauses to admire her handiwork.  “If that kid doesn’t turn to a life of clean, honest living after this, there’s no hope for him,” she declares to Oliver over their comm link.  She steps over his unconscious body before heading further north, toward the cash vault.

He doesn’t answer her—not that she expected him to.  Though he’s more than glad to humor her when they’re eating takeout, Oliver rarely indulges her while they’re working.  “Police just arrived on scene,” he warns her in a whisper.  It makes Felicity wonder just how close he is to the police—and, more importantly, how she can extract him without killing any cops or Oliver going to jail.  Felicity nods to herself; as much as she dislikes the idea of attacking cops, sacrifices must be made.

“Do you need me to extract you?” she asks.

“I’m on the second level—they’re below me,” he whispers in response.  The relief leaves her in a heavy sigh.  “Doesn’t look like Lance is with them, so they must not know we’re here yet.  Mostly officers and a few det—McKenna?”

Felicity frowns; surprise isn’t usually a good thing in her line of work.  “Who?” she demands.

“McKenna Hall,” he clarifies for her.  “She was a friend of mine before… everything happened.”

As much as she understands his desire to keep a secret, Felicity does _not_ need Oliver’s ambiguity and gift for understatement right now.  “Okay,” she starts as gently as she can, “when you say ‘friend,’ do you mean a friend like Tommy, or do you mean a friend like Laurel?”

“We were never involved,” Oliver assures her, tearing through Felicity’s attempt at subtle with a battering ram.  “I was with Laurel at the time.  I… I made advances, but she wasn’t interested in helping me cheat on my girlfriend.”  He sighs in a crackle of static.  “She and Tommy… they blurred lines.  They’re complicated.”

Knowing that Oliver has said all he’s willing to say, Felicity files that away for later, when she has a more pliable audience.  Tommy seemed curious enough about her earlier, when he barely let her leave Verdant for all the questions.  Maybe she can ask some questions of her own later.  “And she’s a cop?” she asks Oliver.  “You two don’t seem like the type to hang around with the boys in blue,” she notes, emphasizing the word _boys_ with great irony.

“We weren’t,” he assures her unnecessarily.  Of the many things Felicity knows him to be, she’d never accuse Oliver of being cop-friendly—especially not while they’re running around in masks to evade the police.  “That’s happened in the last five years.”  He pauses, and even in the silence, she can tell he’s stopping to surveil the scene.  “She’s in a suit, so she’s probably a detective.”

“Have you ever talked to anyone about your obsession with women in the legal system?” Felicity blurts.  A lingering, stony quiet is her only answer, and she winces before leaning around a corner.  Once it’s clear, she continues—both moving and with her unintentional question.  “I mean, first Laurel, the legal eagle.  Then Sara, who was interested in forensic pathology.  Now McKenna, the detective.”  She frowns.  “Wait, what about that other girl you talked about?  Sandra?  Didn’t you say she was working on a forensic chemistry degree?”

“Not the time,” Oliver growls in answer.  Fine.  He can be a stick in the mud if he wants to be—it’s of no consequence to Felicity.

She turns a corner that brings her to a steel vault door just as a figure drops from the rafters.  Her blade is already against his throat before she realizes who it is, but Oliver raises his hands in surrender anyway.  She sheathes the blade before she kills someone—well, _unintentionally_ kills someone.  “Haven’t we already decided that startling me is a good way to find yourself without a head?” she whisper-yells at him.

Oliver points toward the vault door as he puts a finger to his lips and—oh, he better _not_ be shushing her.  That would be an excellent way to find himself without a head, too.  After they exchange stony looks, Felicity finally complies, taking great pleasure in stomping on his foot before she moves to inspect the safe.

The little red light is lit, leaving no question that the rest of the happy family of bank robbers is inside.  “Two options,” she whispers to her partner in crime—quite literally, in this case.  “We take them down, or we lock them in for the police to deal with.”  Oliver’s mouth actually falls open at the suggestion.  “I know,” she assures him, holding her hands up.  “I’m surprised, too.  The whole plan lacks too much blood, screaming, and carnage for my tastes, but, hey, this is your scene.”

Oliver chuckles as he opens his mouth to reply, but all hell breaks loose.

It starts with an innocuous, breathy, “Oh my God.”  Felicity and Oliver both turn, just in time to see a strikingly beautiful cop staring back at them.  Her mouth goes slack as she gapes at the city’s two vigilantes, both standing together as though they’re a gift from the higher powers that be.  All they’re missing is a bow.  Felicity’s eyes flick to the one in Oliver’s left hand.  A bow of the gift-wrapping variety.  The swordmaster hardly thinks his counts in this instance, though it’s far more useful right now.

“Have I mentioned lately how much I _hate_ your missions?” Felicity declares as she smacks his shoulder with the back of his hand.

He rubs his arm absently where she hit him before admitting slowly, “I think there’s a slight flaw in your plan.”

Before Felicity can suggest he change his codename to Captain Obvious, the police officer yells, “SCPD!  You are under—“

Though Felicity knows the speech by heart at this point, she’s almost disappointed when Hall is interrupted.  Gunshots erupt from behind the safe door as Oliver and Felicity dive for cover.  Felicity throws a knife but misses all remaining members of the Terrible Cliché Gang, yet Oliver pops off a lucky shot midair at the broader of the two remaining men.  Felicity’s eyes widen before throwing her partner a nod of approval.  He’ll have to show her how he does that sometime.

He only winks.  Cocky son of a bitch.

Though one clearly has a fleshette embedded in his arm, both men emerge from the vault firing, forcing Hall to retreat behind a nearby wall.  It doesn’t take long before they slip past the detective and start running toward the exit, still firing behind them.

Sighing, Felicity turns toward her partner-in-crime, waiting to follow his lead.  With one look, he manages to make her release a slew of obscenities in six languages.  Instead of answering, he breaks into a run.  With one last choice word, she follows, screaming over the gunfire, “I never thought I’d say this, but I’m starting to _miss_ the Yakuza!”

A few heartbeats later, Felicity wishes she’d saved her breath. With his long strides and her short legs, she scrambles to keep up with Oliver as he sprints at Mach speed.  Even as her injured leg screams in protest, she pushes herself harder and faster, only to watch him slide further away.  Damn, she really needs more cardio in her exercise regimen if she’s going to pair up with Oliver.  Slow-moving Bratva captains have made her complacent and lazy.

Fortunately for her aching lungs, the criminals can’t escape him, either.  At the point where she’s starting to get a stitch in her side and her panting probably sounds like Darth Vader under the modulator, Oliver tackles one to the ground.  The member of the Bad Cliché Gang swiftly clocks Oliver in the jaw and knocks him to the ground, but Felicity finds her only regret is that _she_ didn’t get to hit her partner first.  The asshole deserves it for Usain Bolt-ing his way across seven hundred yards and expecting her short-by-comparison, injured legs to keep up.

Despite her personal feelings, Felicity retaliates.  When the criminal hauls back to hit Oliver again, she slides a blade against his throat.  A healthy dose of self-preservation makes him stop moving immediately.  “That’s… a good… boy,” Felicity manages between gulping for air.  This whole being-winded thing is ruining the whole image her presence commands, and maybe she’s just petty enough to care.  “As much… as I’d love… to see you… punch him in the face— _again_ —for that… nice little jog…”  She touches his neck with the flat of the blade, nudging him from on top of Oliver.  “ _No one_ touches my partner,” she finishes with a raspy growl, pushing him down with a foot on his chest.

By the time she does so, Oliver already has Bad Guy #3 on the ground at bow-point.  He throws her a smile so beautiful it should be illegal, and her blade droops before she remembers there are more important things than staring at his handsome face—even if it _does_ make her feel strange inside.  Strange in a good way.  It takes her another moment to realize why he graced her with such a gift:  she just called him her partner for the very first time.

The walls of the room feel like they’re closing in, and suddenly her breath comes faster for reasons that have nothing to do with her run.  “Part-time partner,” she corrects, her voice turning high and fluttery.  “Not always my partner.  Just sometimes.  A temporary alliance.  Nothing more.”  Not even her harsh, stuttered words darken his megawatt smile and…  “What the hell have you gotten yourself into this time, Felicity?” she mutters under her breath.

Oliver meets her eyes, watching her with a less intense smile—but one that makes her feel like someone twisted her guts in knots all the same.  Of course he heard her; their comm link made sure of that.  “I ask myself that all the time,” he assures her quietly, his voice almost gentle.  “More than I bargained for, but definitely everything I needed.”

It’s too much at once.  His words almost make Felicity feel… _things_.  They almost make her _want_ to feel things.  They almost make her want to tear down all the walls she’s built and remember what it’s like to feel all the things that she wasn’t afraid to feel before Japan.  But because she isn’t an idiot, she knows exactly how that ends.  She’s allowed herself to form attachments twice—and that’s twice too often.  The first died to protect her—a sacrifice she feels every time she carries his swords—and she broke the second’s heart the same way he broke hers.  She isn’t ready to try for three.  Well, that’s what her mind tells her.

Her heart isn’t so sure.

When the other shoe drops, Felicity is almost relieved to deal with far less terrifying things—like police officers who would like to see her dead and armed bank robbers.  The SCPD rounds the corner with six of their finest, the charge led by McKenna Hall herself.  In the back of the line, supported by two officers, is the boy who she left unconscious earlier.

The man with the fleshette in his arm scrambles to his feet, no longer concerned with the arrow trained upon him.  “ _No!_ ” he screams, trying to stand, but injury and what Felicity assumes to be arthritis stop him.  “Don’t take my son!  This isn’t his fault!”  His hand touches his gun for only a moment before sliding across the floor, out of reach.

It’s a second too long.  She sees the twitchy rookie in the back move, a second before the rest of them can react.  Felicity is already running by the time the smoke leaves the gun, diving in front of its path.  Fire rips through her side just as the gunshot carries across the space, but better her side than the man’s head.

“Don’t shoot!” she screams, but it’s already too late.  Hall reacts to the sound instinctively, and she puts a bullet in the man’s thigh as he attempts to stand.

When it strikes home, Felicity knows it’s over.  Blood shoots across the space, far enough that some of it lands on the shoulder of her jacket.  Femoral artery.  From experience, she knows that he doesn’t have long enough for the ambulance Hall is dialing before he bleeds out.  With a fast-pumping heart, he’s lucky if he makes it five minutes, but it doesn’t stop her from crawling over to apply pressure.

The man groans as she presses her palms to the wounds.  “You’re going to be okay,” Felicity says, but the words feel hollow as they leave her mouth.   Another hand falls over hers, and she looks up to see the boy she stopped earlier trying to add pressure as he shrugs out of his jacket.

“Arrow,” she barks, but it’s to find Oliver already slicing through the leather jacket for something he can use as a tourniquet.  His eyes stay trained on the cops as he fastens it around the robber’s injured leg, and Felicity follows his glance to see them arresting the other masked robber.  Oliver attempts to pull it tight, but the worn leather snaps in his hands.

“Go,” the dying man declares, touching his son’s shoulder.  “Go back to your mother.  Both of you need to leave now, before reinforcements come.”  His next words pierce through Felicity’s dead heart:  “I love you.”

They’re his last.

The boy screams a mantra of the word _no_ through his tears, and her hands fall slack.  It’s like watching it all over again:  the ricochet hitting her father in the leg and screaming over his dead body.  Yet another father she couldn’t save, and yet another child crying over senseless violence that claimed his life.

 _No_ leaves her lips in a whisper.  Not again.  A numbness falls over her as she stares at another man who didn’t need to die—who didn’t _deserve_ to die.  That eerie cold falls over her again—like the cold in the shipping container they kept her in.  Whatever was left of her after Japan feels as though someone scooped it out, hollowed her out until she feels nothing but emptiness.

Then there’s warmth.  There shouldn’t be, but there is.  Warm, strong hands hook under her arms, pulling her to her feet as if she’s little more than a ragdoll.  “Felicity,” Oliver whispers.  “Felicity, I’m sorry, but we need to go.”  Even through the modulator, she can hear new exhaustion that wasn’t there only moments before.  “There’s nothing else we can do for him now.”  Only when he attempts to carry her does she snap out of her daze, steps slow and shaky.  He takes her blood-covered hand before pulling her out of the bank and into the cool night air.

The police don’t give chase.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I have you intrigued, the next update is July 21.
> 
> In the meantime, if you follow Breaking News, I'll see you on July 14.


	2. Face the Music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver and Felicity face the music. Metaphorically speaking. There isn't any music in this chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry y'all had to wait until tonight for this. I tried to post it all damn morning, but my internet has been on the fritz for the last week or so.
> 
> As always, curious to hear your thoughts on this. If you elect not to, I totally understand and I thank you for taking the time to read it. :) Thanks!

For the sixth time since they climbed into his Mercedes five minutes ago, Oliver glances over at Felicity, only to find her staring straight ahead with unseeing eyes and arms wrapped around her middle.  A frown creeps across his face.  In the short time he’s known her, he’s learned her habits, her persona, the way she reacts to the world around her.  He’s studied her gestures, her movements, those little telling tics that she doesn’t seem to be aware of.  Because of that, he knows she should be talking a mile a minute about… something— _anything_ —but he hasn’t coaxed a word from her lips since they left the bank.

They went back to their hiding place in silence.  They switched into street clothes in silence.  They got into his car in silence.  And now, here she sits, as immobile and impassive as if she’s a statue carved from stone.

And now, the quiet is too loud, filling up with all the things they aren’t saying.

A man lost his life tonight.  A child watched his father die, helpless and alone—something Oliver knows must bring back demons for Felicity just as sure as it brings back his own.  A beat cop with a twitchy hand incited a man’s death—a man Felicity took a bullet for in order to end the carnage.

He watched the police walk them out, though:  the criminals went to jail.

Some days, that leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

Another gasp leaves her, watery and strangled, and Oliver decides he’d much rather be back on the island and feeling the slice of a whip across his back.  She’s crying, and there’s nothing he can do about it.  If he tries to bring attention to it, if he tries to comfort her, it will do more harm than good.  Felicity doesn’t want his comfort—it will make her feel weak and vulnerable.  For not the first time, he thinks of that article he read in the paper, about the ruthless monster that haunts the streets of Starling City, a bloodthirsty maniac bent on revenge.  Yet here she sits, crying silently for the death of a man who she didn’t even know.

If only they could see the Vengeance of Starling now.

It’s uncomfortably easy to see her as only one aspect of her multi-faceted personality, far too easy to view Felicity as cunning, funny, and unbreakable.  It’s also too easy to forget that her air of invincibility hides a woman who cares so deeply and completely that she pushes all but a select few away.  And even though it feels like his heart is being ripped out to watch her hurt and do nothing about it, Oliver feels that he’s seeing Felicity Smoak— _all_ of her—for the very first time.

His knee bounces in the quiet as his finger taps a rhythm on the steering wheel, but he waits until she finally wipes her eyes and sighs to try.  In a voice barely above a whisper, Oliver finally asks the question to which he desperately needs an answer:  “Are you okay?”

“Not really.”

Her voice is as hollow as if it was masked with her modulator, but at least she’s finally speaking to him again.  It might only be two words, but that’s two more than she’s offered since Derek Reston’s death.  Oliver can handle that.  What he can’t handle is the silence.  Sometimes, he thinks that the only thing that keeps him sane is her voice, chattering away idly before his mind can go places it shouldn’t.  Tonight, though, there’s nothing to shelter him from the fact he could only watch as a man died in front of him.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks.  What he doesn’t ask is, _Will you please talk about something?  Anything?_

“No.”

In the many discoveries he’s made about Felicity Smoak, the biggest has to be the way she says that single word.   _No one_ says no the way Felicity does.  Instead of emphasizing the word with others—like _hell no_ or _no way_ —she allows the word to stand on its own with a finality so heavy it might as well be written in stone.  When Felicity says _no_ , it’s a mountain refusing to move—and no one can change its mind.

Oliver isn’t foolish enough to try.

They lapse into silence again as he accepts the finality in her words.  It stretches on for what feels like eternity before she releases a single, wordless sound.  As he pulls to a red light, Oliver turns to look at her.  “If I _did_ want to talk about it, though,” she clarifies slowly, “I’d talk to you.  It’s just that…”  She trails off, motioning to her temple.  “Things.  Up here.”

This time, the silence is no longer tense.  Instead, it’s peaceful as Felicity gathers the words to make sense of the night’s events.  “It’s complicated,” she finally declares.  “While you’re kind of my best—well, _only_ —friend, this is why I hate working with you:  the lines are… blurry.”  Her hand comes down hard on the dash, and Oliver jumps.  “I mean, when I go out at night, I hunt the mafia.  Men who deal in death, drugs, guns, and human trafficking.  There’s no question that the bad guys in _my_ missions are bad.

“But your criminals…”  Felicity sighs, and her shoulders curve inward as her whole body seems to deflate with that single exhalation.  “A man died tonight.  And while death doesn’t usually bother me, there was no _need_ for that man to die.  He was just a father who loved his son, and a cop with an itchy trigger finger started the events that took that from him.”  She stares out the passenger window.  “The bad guys don’t look so bad tonight—and the good guys don’t look so good, either.”

A horn honks behind them, and it’s only then that Oliver realizes the light is green.  He hits the gas as the car changes lanes to go around them, and Felicity holds up her middle finger at the offending car.  Oliver chuckles; there’s his girl.  “When I’m taking down the mafia, I feel good about that,” Felicity declares, adjusting her glasses.  “I sleep well at night—as well as I can, anyway—because I know I’m taking truly evil men off the street.”  She shakes her head.  “But when I work with you on _your_ missions, catching the ‘bad guy’”—she makes air quotes—“usually makes me feel _worse_.  Kind of like deciding you need to watch a Disney movie to cheer you up and picking _The Fox and the Hound_.”

When Oliver chuckles at her comparison, she actually cracks a smile.  There are still tears in her eyes, but somehow it makes her smile all the more beautiful.  “Sometimes catching the criminals isn’t enough,” he concludes for her.

Felicity nods.  “Exactly.  And right now, I just want to hit something or slice something.  And maybe get a little drunk.”  She waves a hand.  “Not exactly a mature way to handle my problems, I know, but I think I’ve done enough adulting for one night.”

Though her wording baffles him—as it usually does—Oliver understands her sentiment.  With the barest hint of a smile, he asks, “You do realize that my base is under a bar, right?  I could stitch up those bullet wounds, and then you could break a few training dummies.”

“Are you sure you want to do that?” Felicity asks.  “You have a family waiting for you at home.”  The implication that she doesn’t have that luxury does not escape him.

He winks at her.  “What kind of friend would I be if I left you alone right now?”

“The kind who has other things in his life besides a friend with more baggage than the cargo hold of a passenger jet,” Felicity replies without missing a beat.  For the second time tonight, he laughs at her words while the sentiment behind them sinks like a stone in his gut.  No one else in his life manages to make him feel that combination.  “I know you have this hero complex,” she continues, “this… crazy compulsion to save the city—which is very endearing, by the way.  No judgment.  But you aren’t obligated save me, Oliver.  I’m perfectly capable of saving myself.”

“I know,” he assures her with all the sincerity he has.  Unable to stop himself, he takes her wrist and places her hand on the gear shift, covering it with his own.  Felicity tenses under his touch at first, but then relaxes.  Her eyes close as a peaceful smile comes to her lips.  “I know I don’t have to save you—you don’t need to be saved.”  She snorts at that.  “But I do want to help you if I can.  Any way I can.”

“I need to get my workout clothes from the house,” she answers after a pause, “and some alcohol.”  Oliver starts to protest, but she waves him off.  “If I’m going to get drunk, I’m going to supply at least half the alcohol,” she declares.  “If I don’t, you’re going to steal it from upstairs—which is going to piss Tommy off—and then you aren’t going to let me pay for it.”  He blinks twice; apparently, while he was learning to understand Felicity, she was learning to understand _him_ , too.  She points at him suddenly.  “What’s your drink of choice?”

“When I was younger, anything I could get my hands on,” he answers.  Felicity only rolls her eyes, and it makes him decide to offer a better answer.  “I’ve always liked the flavor of scotch, though.”  He turns to her.  “Do you have a favorite?”

“Red wine,” Felicity answers with a smile.  “I have a bottle of merlot in the kitchen right now.”  Her eyes light up suddenly.  “You’re a scotch guy,” she declares, as though it just dawned on her.  “I have just the thing for you to try.”  She sobers slightly.  “I haven’t opened it yet—it’s the kind of drink you share.”

Instead of letting her dwell on the implications of that sentence, Oliver teases as he makes a turn into the Glades, “Miss Smoak, are you trying to get me drunk?”

It does the trick:  she laughs.  “Maybe a little,” she admits.  “But not for the usual reasons.  The only thing lucky that will be happening to you tonight is if I allow you to touch my swords.”

For reasons he doesn’t understand, her smile suddenly falters.  “My dad was shot in the femoral artery,” she declares without warning, in a voice that makes Oliver want to torture all the people who ever hurt her.  “He bled out—just like the man tonight.  There was nothing I could do to stop him and I just felt so…”

She doesn’t finish, but she doesn’t need to.  “We were on the boat three days before I reached Lian Yu,” Oliver offers.  He can feel her eyes lock onto him, but he can only stare ahead at the traffic as he turns onto Ocean Avenue.  “There were three of us:  my father, the captain, and me.”  He swallows hard.  “After the second day, there wasn’t enough food and water to last all three of us.  My father… he…”  Even after five years, he can’t bring himself to say it aloud.  He’s never told anyone this before—not his mother, not Thea.

“You don’t have to tell me if you aren’t ready,” Felicity assures him.

He squeezes her hand on the gear shift in gratitude, but he tries again anyway.  Secrets might be a way to control his environment, but they also carry weight.  This is his opportunity to cast some off.  “He had a gun,” Oliver continues.  Felicity swallows, probably already knowing how this story ends.  “He… shot the captain right in front of me, and he fell overboard.  There was nothing I—”

He pulls into Felicity’s driveway, and he’s never been so glad to pull to a stop in his life.  Felicity slips her hand from under his, choosing to rest it against the back of his neck instead.  It gives him the strength to go on.  “He told me to survive.  Then he turned the gun on himself.”  His lips press together.  “I buried him on the island.  Tonight… it brought all of it back for me, too.”  With a cheer he doesn’t feel, Oliver smiles at her.  “You aren’t the only one carrying more baggage than the cargo hold of a passenger jet.”

Though she smiles at his words, it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.  “Maybe not,” she agrees slowly, “but I think you carry yours better.”  She pats his cheek before sliding out of the car.  “You’re just a hot mess on the inside.”

As Oliver joins her, she pauses, eyes narrowing at something in the distance as her shoulders tense.  “DH5, Y4K,” she mutters under her breath, squinting at the house across the street, two south from them.  “That’s the same car that was there yesterday.  And the day before that.”

He blows out a breath of relief; this is far easier to help her with than the fact they watched a man die tonight.  After his experiences on the island, he’s had enough of these episodes himself to recognize the signs.  Touching her arm, he assures her, “It’s probably just the neighbor’s car, Felicity.”

Though she moves to grab her bag out of the truck, that doesn’t seem to console her.  “Jenny Patel drives a black, 2004 Chrysler Sebring,” she declares.  Oliver frowns, and she clarifies with a shrug.  “We can’t all live on nine acres of land.  Know thy neighbor—and thy neighbor’s vehicles.  That is a Chevy Cavalier from the nineties.  No one on my block drives one of those.”

“Maybe they have company,” he suggests.  “A friend or a relative or a lover.”

With a subtle roll of her neck, she motions toward it.  “The person in that car is male, Oliver—look at the silhouette.”  When he does, he can’t help but agree with her assessment.  “Jenny is a loner like me—doesn’t have any friends over.  Ever.  All of her male relatives are dead or in prison.”  She crosses her arms.  “And she’s gay.”

Before he can come up with a response, a woman steps out of the passenger side of the vehicle.  She waves to the driver before walking up the steps to knock on the woman’s door.  Oliver releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“Goddamn it,” Felicity growls, throwing her bag over her shoulder.  She stops to kick his tire for good measure.  “I thought I had those under control.”  She huffs before glancing over her shoulder at him.  “I’m sorry, Oliver.  Just… it’s been a lot tonight.”

Unable to stop himself, he asks as he joins her on the porch, “You have the episodes, too?”  It causes her to drop her keys, and Oliver winces as he bends to retrieve them.  As he hands them back to her, he adds, “I’ll notice something insignificant that no one else does, and then I think it’s a threat.”

Reluctant, Felicity nods.  “It’s called hypervigilance,” she answers as she turns the key.  She throws her bag on the floor as she walks in before adding, “It’s a symptom of anxiety disorders and…”  Her nose wrinkles as she makes a face.  “PTSD.”  She turns toward her room.  “I’ll just get my clothes and I’ll be ready to leave again.”  She stops halfway down the hall.  “Oh, and your Ducati is still in my shed from the other night—I know you like to take that to the club because of traffic.”  She points to the peg board where she hangs her keys—the one that has _Alohomora_ written across it.  “Keys are hanging up.”

By the time he takes his keys from the board, she’s already in her room, door pulled shut.  He takes his leather jacket he left on Saturday from the coat rack and pulls it on.  Oliver takes a step forward, but stops, running a hand through his hair.  He’s only been here twice, and he isn’t sure where her boundaries are here.

Fortunately, he’s saved when Roy walks through the door.  “Thought you’d show up soon,” is the teenager’s greeting.  “The police scanner just said they apprehended the gang.”  He shrugs his hoodie off and hangs it on the coat rack before leveling a look at Oliver.  “I guess it didn’t go well.”

“Not really,” is all Oliver offers in return.

The teenager turns to face him, meeting Oliver’s eyes for the first time.  “Look,” he declares, “I know you don’t really know me.  I don’t really know you, either.  But Felicity is like my sister, and I know she’s probably taking this personally.”  He motions between them.  “I also know that Felicity trusts you to have her back out there.  If she didn’t, you wouldn’t be _here_ .”  Roy shoves his hands into his pockets.  “I’m the one who has her back when she’s _not_ out there.  So I need to know _I_ can trust you to tell me what’s going on with her.”  He squares his shoulders before asking, “Is she okay?”

Oliver can’t help but smile; if there’s anything in this world he can respect, it’s a brother trying to be there for his sister.  “She’s taking it hard,” Oliver answers slowly, with one eye on her bedroom door.  “She’ll be okay, though.”  He smiles his assurance at Roy.  “She’s a survivor—it’s what she does.”

The only response Roy gives is to turn toward the menus on the wall, next to the fridge.  “So Thai food,” he decides.  “Her favorite place is still open.”  He starts to dial before Oliver can protest.  “What do you want?  And what do you think she’ll want—dim sum or pad thai?”

“Actually,” he begins as gently as he can, “I think she wants to go back to Verdant.”  Roy terminates the call immediately, quirking an eyebrow at the vigilante.  Though it won’t win him any points in the long run, he adds, “She said she wanted to do some training, maybe drink a little.”

Rolling his eyes, the kid replies, “Oliver, we’re all adults here.  Felicity might practically be my sister, but I’m not stupid.  I know you slept over on Saturday night.”  Though Oliver opens his mouth to protest, Roy cuts him off.  “If you two ever…”—the kid actually shudders—“ _need space_ , you can tell me to scram.  I have a friend I can crash with—or if I get really desperate, I can call Donna.”

After his mouth opens several times without words coming out, Oliver finally says, “Felicity and I aren’t sleeping together, Roy.”  The kid only throws him a look.  “I… had a bad night.  Felicity listened while I talked, and then she let me sleep in her bed.  That’s it.”  His eyes turn toward her bedroom door.  “She’s a friend.  Someone I can trust.  I wouldn’t throw that away for meaningless sex.”

Roy scoffs, but grimaces at the same time.  “First off, the topic of you boning my sister?  Still makes me throw up in my mouth a little.”  Oliver can’t help but laugh, though he knows he wouldn’t be if their situations were reversed.  “But no one said _anything_ about meaningless sex.”  He motions vaguely.  “I thought you two had some sort of friends-with-benefits thing going on.”

“I don’t do casual relationships,” Felicity answers for both of them, and Oliver immediately turns toward her.  Her eyes narrow as she slings a new duffle over her shoulder.  Both men glance at each other before swallowing.  If she heard the first part of that conversation, Oliver knows neither of them will live to see another sunrise.  Because she isn’t going for her swords, though, he assumes she didn’t.

Then again, Felicity seems like the type of woman who would want to kill them with her bare hands.

She points a finger in Oliver’s face.  “You are _never_ obligated to answer Roy’s probing questions, Oliver,” she declares, rounding on Roy with a look.  “I _told_ you not to do this.”  When she points at Roy, Oliver is very glad he isn’t on the receiving end of that glare.  “For your edification—“

“What the hell does that even mean?” Roy interjects.

“For your _clarification_ ,” she tries again, in a voice that sounds like ice, “Oliver is my friend.  Cut, end scene, roll credits.  The closest he has ever been to seeing me naked is when he pulled bullets out of my chest.”  She turns to Oliver suddenly.  “And I remember you being very careful about revealing only what you had to.  Thank you for that.”  She waves a hand to dismiss the thought as her attention moves back to Roy.  “The point is that he’s never worshipped at this particular temple.”

As she motions to herself, Oliver’s eyes make a lazy path down her figure without his permission, lingering a little too long over her dark skinny jeans.  He’s never thought about it before, but he’d be lying if he said the idea didn’t cross his mind now.  Not that it would matter—Felicity would never be interested, and their… whatever they have is too important to risk.

“Actually, _no one_ has worshipped at this temple in over three years,” Felicity continues.  Not since I broke up with…”  She trails off, making a face.  “My gorgeous ex-asshole.”  Roy makes a gagging sound in his throat as she turns back to Oliver, blanching.  “That was too much information and probably a little pathetic.”  She shrugs, even as her cheeks turn red.  “I don’t do casual sex, and I’m not exactly prime relationship material right now.”

Before he can reply, she moves to her other bag by the door, pulling her swords free and putting them in her overnight bag.  After a moment of deliberation, he answers, “It’s been five for me.”

Though his statement is vague, Felicity turns back to him with wide eyes.  “ _Really?_ ”  Oliver winces; the note of surprise in her tone isn’t exactly flattering.  “Because…”  She gestures to him a few times.  “I mean, I just always assumed that there were women in your life when you were gone.”

“There were,” Oliver replies slowly.  “There were even a couple I loved.”  Talking about the island—about Shado and Sara—always makes him feel like his throat is closing up and he can’t breathe, but right now, he feels like a caged bird set free.  “We wanted to, but there were risks we couldn’t afford to take.”  Though he wasn’t always careful _before_ the island, the idea of an unplanned pregnancy on the island was enough to make him find other, more creative ways to handle his libido.

Felicity rises to her feet with her bag, placing a hand on her hip as the other holds her Deathstroke jacket.  For the first time he realizes she’s in a pink, loose-fitting sweatshirt that hangs off her shoulder, flashing the black strap of an athletic top underneath.  A smile tugs at his lips when he sees the words printed in black lettering over the powder pink material:   _happy to demonstrate what “hits like a girl” really means_.

Something tells him he’s going to find that information out firsthand tonight.

“Oh!  Wine,” she murmurs to herself, pulling on the jacket.  “Roy, I’m going to go get a little plastered, beat up training dummies, possibly knock Oliver down a few times, and maybe even fire a bow.”  She points to Oliver.  “You promised to show me sometime.”

“Only if you’ll teach me how to use a sword,” is his offer.

She picks up two bottles of liquor and shoves them into her bag.  “The art of the sword is more than just swinging a blade, Oliver,” she answers with a roll of her eyes.  “It’s a mentality.  It’s about treating a blade as more than just a weapon—it’s about treating it as an extension of yourself, of learning how to adapt using both grace and elegance.  That can’t be taught.  It has to be found.”

A hand falls on Oliver’s shoulder for a moment, and it takes every urge within him to prevent breaking Roy’s hand.  “You have your hands full tonight,” he states in a dry tone.  “Usually Felicity doesn’t go all white, female Mr. Miyagi until _after_ she’s had a few drinks.”  He frowns.  “Maybe it’s more like Yoda.”

“Actually,” Felicity interjects with a partial smile, “I prefer to think of myself like Pai Mei from _Kill Bill_ or Chiun from _Remo Williams_.”  She throws Oliver a grin that sends chills up his spine, and he knows instantly that’s the grin that lingers under her mask when she’s taking down criminals as Deathstroke.  “I will teach you what you want to know, but you _will_ suffer in the process.”  She shrugs.  “And, if I’m being honest, I’ll probably enjoy it, too.”

She leans over to kiss Roy’s cheek, and he turns the color of his favorite hoodie.  “I’ll be fine tonight—don’t worry.  It’s just Verdant.  Cell phone is on and nearby if you need me.  Make sure you get something to eat, okay?”  The boy attempts to glare at her, but his smile lessens its intensity.  “Don’t wait up—we’ll probably be too blitzed to drive.”  She ushers Oliver out the door first, but she stops to poke her head through.  “Love you, Roy.”

Oliver doesn’t hear the kid’s muttered response before he starts pushing the Ducati through the mud trail that made him leave it here in the first place.  By the time he has it on the driveway and has transferred the bag from his Mercedes, Felicity joins him, and he passes her a helmet before placing her bag in the compartment.

“I know you like to break traffic laws,” she starts while placing the helmet on her head, “so don’t slow down just because of me, okay?”  She winks before lowering her visor, as Oliver starts the bike.  “I can handle a little danger.”

After Oliver slides across the bike, she joins him, legs flush against his.  When she leans forward to wrap her arms around his waist, he feels every inch of her against the back of his jacket.  Suddenly the Ducati seems like a worse option than it already did.  “I wouldn’t treat you like you’re fragile, Felicity,” he assures her.

“I know,” she replies.  “That’s what I like about you, Oliver.”

The twenty-minute drive back to Verdant takes them less than ten on the Ducati.  Oliver pulls the bike up to the side door, and the two of them gather their bags.  Opening the door with a key, he offers with a smile, “Ladies first.”

Felicity rolls her eyes with a smile, but enters anyway.  He motions her toward the back, where two doors lie:  one to the wine cellar, the other locked with a keypad that leads down to his base of operations.  Before they can take more than two steps, Tommy comes out of the cellar.

Oliver’s best friend stops immediately, releasing a long breath.  “I heard someone died tonight,” is the first thing he says.  “I’m glad to see you two made it back here in one piece.”  Felicity’s smile fades, and Oliver’s follows.  “Are you going to stay around here for the rest of the night?”

The blonde shrugs.  “I don’t like to make plans,” is her simple answer, adjusting her bag over her shoulder.  “When I do, lawyers use words like ‘premeditated,’ and then I end up in _more_ trouble than if I hadn’t planned anything.”  Tommy’s eyes widen, but Felicity waves a hand.  “That’s a joke, Tommy.  I’ve never been in a courtroom.”  She winks at him.  “I’ve never even gotten a parking ticket.  I only know about premeditation from watching forensic shows when I can’t sleep.”  She lifts her shoulder again.  “I also know a lot about animal mating behavior, European history, and psychological profiling.”

“Because that’s not weird at all,” Tommy answers with a nervous trill of a laugh.  Oliver only throws a look at his friend, and the club manager waves his hands in an attempt to backtrack.  “I mean, it’s interesting, but also kind of strange.”  His brows knit together—something that never bodes well.  “Why animal mating behavior, though?”

To Oliver’s surprise, Felicity doesn’t take offense at the question; instead, she actually smiles.  “ _That_ is actually a good question,” she answers, making a face as though she’s surprised the words are leaving her mouth.  “It’s amazing how little selection you have at three a.m., so I usually end up on the wildlife documentary channels.  Once I watch it, I remember it.”  She taps her temple.  “I have a crazy high retention rate.”

Clarifying for his best friend, Oliver adds, “Felicity has been a member of Mensa since she was fifteen.”

The club manager answers with a low whistle.  “Well, I am equally impressed and intimidated right now.”  He leans closer to her, and Oliver tenses when Felicity does.  In a low, stage whisper, Tommy adds, “If you’re a genius, why are you here with this guy?”  He jabs a thumb toward Oliver.

Felicity turns to look at Oliver, the barest hint of a smile playing on her face.  “I’m prone to bad judgment,” she deadpans with a wink.  Tommy laughs as she turns back to him.  “We also happen to have a few things in common.”  On her fingers, she counts them.  “Traumatic experiences, horrible relationships, overactive senses of justice, trained in self-defense, a lot of baggage, and poor style choices in our past.”  She points at her partner in crime.  “I saw that picture they took of you five years ago—the one where it looked like you had a Pekingese glued to your head.”  She motions to herself.  “I went through a goth phase.  It wasn’t pretty.”  Oliver opens his mouth to ask, but she places a finger to his lips.  “And no, you can’t see it.  I burned all the photographs.”

When she releases him, he replies, “It’s a shame I didn’t know you five years ago.”  Part of him means it, but the other part of him isn’t sure; the person he was five years ago wouldn’t have appreciated Felicity Smoak.  He’d like to think he would have recognized how incredible she is, but that Oliver was too high most of the time to recognize anything.

She rolls her eyes.  “I would have eaten you alive,” she assures him.  “I was an angry teenager who spent her whole life being ostracized.  Sharp tongue and hard heart.  One bad pick-up line and I would have had you scurrying back to your mother with your tail between your legs.”  She leans in to whisper, “I wasn’t so nice back then.”

Oliver only lifts an eyebrow.  “This is you being _nice_?” he counters.

“Nic _er_ ,” she corrects with a grin—the Deathstroke grin.  “I’m nicer now than I used to be, Oliver.  When you start from the bottom, there’s no way to go but up.”  She pats his shoulder once before entering the code into the keypad—the one he _didn’t_ give her—and holding the door open with her hip.  A glint of darkness dances in her eyes, and Oliver’s mouth goes dry.  “When you’re ready to get your ass kicked, feel free to join me.”  As she enters the basement, she calls over her shoulder.  “Bring alcohol.”

As the door shuts, Tommy blows out a long, audible breath, and Oliver can’t really disagree with the thought behind that.  At first, he thought Felicity was going to be the death of him because of how she kept a wall between them, but now he realizes that there’s a whole other torment he didn’t anticipate.

She’s beautiful.

It isn’t a problem in itself; mostly, his reaction to it presents the problem.  Though he knows he shouldn’t, he can’t help but study her figure a little too long, or wonder what it would feel like to have her on top of him. Knowing he will never experience that only seems to send his imagination into overdrive.

“She’s… odd,” Tommy finally says after a moment.  “I mean, in a good way.  I mean, she had zero sexual interest in me whatsoever—which is unusual for a straight woman—but she talks to me like I’m a real person who she has no interest in bringing to bed.”  He smacks Oliver in the chest.  “Kind of like the way you treat me.”  There’s a brief pause before he adds, “But with boobs—and a really nice ass.”

“Tommy,” Oliver warns.

He waves his hands wildly.  “What I’m trying to say is that I _get_ it, Ollie,” Tommy explains.  He shrugs.  “When I met her earlier tonight, I kind of thought she was a weird choice for you.  Since you came back, you haven’t really talked to anyone other than the people you knew five years ago, but then Felicity walks in and talks about you like you’re old friends.”  He grins.  “I get it.  She doesn’t care that you’re the Arrow or that you could probably kill anyone here with your bare hands in ten different ways.”

“Twelve,” Oliver corrects with a grin.

Tommy laughs.  “Fine.  Twelve.  The point is that she doesn’t care about that, and she genuinely _likes_ you anyway.”  His grin turns salacious and Oliver knows whatever comes next won’t be good.  “And you have a _thing_ for her—a sexual thing.”

Oliver barely manages his best friend’s name before he’s cut off again.  “Hey, no judgment,” Tommy assures him.  “I mean, she’s not your _usual_ type, but she’s attractive in this… subtle way.  Like a sexy librarian or something.”  Oliver turns to him with a frown as Tommy makes a noise in his throat.  “But she’s also got this vibe like she has a freezer full of dismembered bodies in her basement.  Which should make me want to run—because serial killer vibe—but…  Is it weird if I think that might actually make her hotter?”  Oliver opens his mouth, but Tommy adds, “And did you even _see_ her ass in those jeans?”

Oliver glares as his jaw audibly snaps shut.  Tommy, who might have more of a self-preservation instinct than Oliver realized, holds his hands up in surrender.  “Because I did _not_ ,” he assures his best friend.  “Please don’t put an arrow in me.”

“I’m not the one you need to worry about.”  With a twisted smile of a grimace, he warns his best friend, “Felicity is physically capable of killing you herself, Tommy.”  Oliver pats Tommy’s shoulder in reassurance before adding with a sincerely false smile, “I’m kidding.  She might make you _wish_ you were dead after a good verbal lashing, but she would never hurt you.”  After a moment, he allows, “As long as you don’t touch her.”

When his friend tries to protest hotly, Oliver clarifies, “I don’t mean an unwanted sexual advance, Tommy—I know you better than that.  You’re only interested in Laurel.”  He places a hand on his friend’s shoulder again, this time for effect.  “But Felicity doesn’t like to be touched.  If you try to put a hand on her shoulder, you might not get it back.”

Tommy nods a few times before holding his hands up again.  “Don’t _worry_ , Ollie.  I promise not to touch her.”  He winks.  “Besides, I like my hands just where they are.”

Rolling his eyes, Oliver wonders if his best friend takes anything seriously.  He comes up with only three things:  their friendship, Laurel, and running Verdant.  “I’m going to grab a bottle of Lafite Rothschild,” he informs his friend.  “Bad night on the job—I think Felicity wants to drink a little.”  There’s no need to tell Tommy the two of them plan to drink far more than _a little_ ; it will only lead him to incorrect conclusions.

Tommy follows him into the wine cooler.  “Ollie, that’s over a thousand dollars a bottle!” he protests.  “That’s going to make a serious cut into our profits!”

“I’ll write the club a check,” Oliver answers before ducking out of the cooler.

 

* * *

 

With his arm resting against the frame of the black Chevrolet’s open window, John Diggle watches as his ex-wife extricates herself from the young woman who owns the home at 1104 Ocean Avenue.  When she comes back, she pauses in the frame of the door for a moment.  “Aren’t you glad I was with you tonight, Johnny?” she teases, sliding into the car and shutting the door.  “If Oliver had recognized you, that wouldn’t have ended well.”

Glancing in the rearview mirror, John replies, “I have to keep tabs on my charge somehow—even if he doesn’t want my help.”  His brow furrows; something had seemed strange earlier.  Not Oliver—the kid always seems strange, especially when he’s trying not to be—but the _girl_.  “I think the blonde is onto me, though.”

Lyla frowns as she throws a discreet glance behind them.  “I picked up on that, too,” she agrees after a moment.  Her brow furrows.  “You see her posture?  Stiff as a board.”  Her eyes flick back to him.  “Like yours.  Like ex-military.  Did you run records?”  She takes a moment to count houses.  “What is that, eleven-oh-seven Ocean Avenue?”

“Yeah,” Diggle answers in a grunt.  “Whoever she is, she’s renting.  Not from one of the big companies, either.  It’s from a private owner.  No computer records.  And I’m not stealing her mail to find out her name.”  He sighs.  “I checked out the military databases for any woman around her age in Starling City.  Unless she’s spec ops—and I don’t think she is—she’s not military.”  He runs a hand over his face.  “I checked arrest records, too—she’s clean.  In Starling, anyway.  And I can’t follow her to work, or she might suspect my tail.  More than she already does.”

When he looks in the rearview again, it’s in time for a teenager in a red hoodie to pull up in an orange Beetle that was probably old thirty years ago.  “There’s also the kid,” Diggle adds.  “I don’t know if he’s a kid brother or a cousin or even a boyfriend, but I think he lives here.  No name, and I think he’s too young to do a record check.”

Lyla turns toward John, pursing her lips in thought.  “You know,” she starts slowly, in the same voice she used to tell him there was something wrong with the dryer, “I could always talk to Amanda and—“

“No,” he replies immediately.  “I’m not getting ARGUS involved in this, Lyla.”  He throws her a look.  “Especially not your control freak of a boss.  I’ve heard stories about Amanda Waller for years, and I think the last thing we need is to pull her in on my very rich client.”

“I think she knows something about him she isn’t saying,” is Lyla’s careful reply, causing John’s brow to furrow.  “When I told her I was leaving early, she said, ‘Give Mr. Diggle my regards.’”  Nothing about that surprises him; from the stories Lyla has told, Amanda Waller is a fan of power games.  “But then she said to tell you to pass on a message to your client:  ‘Tell Mr. Queen he should be careful.  Working nights doesn’t seem to agree with him.’”  Lyla shakes her head.  “He’s a _billionaire_.  He plays at running a club—he doesn’t work.”

“Apparently Amanda Waller thinks differently,” Diggle replies.  He checks the tracker he put in the billionaire’s pocket as the kid walks out the door with the blonde in tow.  The tracker moves with him.  “Looks like he at least has the tracker with him this time—I lost him in traffic when he left the club.”

Lyla grins.  “I have to say, you take me to all the best places, Johnny,” she teases with a smile.  “Next time we grab dinner for old time’s sake, I’m driving so you can’t take the evening to spy on your client.”  She frowns.  “Remind me, why do you have to spy on him again?”

“He jumped out of a _moving vehicle_ to ditch me,” Diggle reminds her.  “By the time I stopped, he was already gone.”  He runs a hand down his face.  “ _And_ he knocked me out at that big party he had a while back.”  His eyebrows knit together; the more he thinks about it, the stranger it becomes.  “I think he used a combat hold on me.”

Lyla only replies, “Maybe there’s more to Oliver Queen than you think, Johnny.”


	3. In Vino Veritas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Much wine is had by all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know--Masque, who has been chronically late to post for the last five weeks, is _early_. Mark your calendars; it's a rare moment. ;) Part of the reason I'm posting early is because I am working a nine-hour shift tomorrow and then a six-hour shift on Saturday, so I'm probably going to be mostly dead over the next two days. Like I have been all week.
> 
> Sorry for the delay in review replies this week, folks. In addition to work trying to kill me, I am trying to buy specialized supplies for school, trying to find shit for my apartment, and moving. I know I've been sporadic at best, but I'm always reading your reviews and they are appreciated. I'm in the process of responding. I know I'm slower than turtles stampeding through peanut butter, but I promise I'm working on it. ;)
> 
> Also, there's a lot of foreign language in this chapter. My understanding of Mandarin, Russian, and Japanese come from online dictionaries, so there is a high likelihood it's wrong. If so, let me know, and I'll fix it. :) On the bright side, I found a guide and did the translation from Cyrillic to English alphabets on my own. Which was kind of fun.
> 
> Quick shout-out to Elsie for her awesome beta work on this.
> 
> Y'all are the best and I thank you very, very much for sticking with me through this crazy time. As always, I love hearing from you, but thank you just for reading. :)

When Oliver descends the stairs, it’s to find Felicity sitting on one of the old shop stools, staring at the objects she’s laid out on the metal gurney.  Her bag is shoved into one corner, and a pink sweatshirt peeks out of it.  When he glances over at her again, he realizes she’s in a sleeveless top and pair of spandex pants that end just below the knee.  Her knees are pulled up to her chest and her feet are bare, toes painted like watermelon slices.

The moment she sees him, she rises to her feet, reaching to adjust glasses that are no longer there.  “I hope it’s okay I took over your table,” she says in greeting.  “I wanted to go ahead and clean my swords first.”

Glancing over at the table, he notices that her swords are laid out in full glory, and two bottles of liquor are pushed to one corner.  Oliver places the bottle of red in his hands next to them, then grabs the bottle of vodka sitting on top of a toolbox in the back and places it with the other three.  Curious, he comes back to the set of swords, unsheathed and glistening from all her hard work.  His hand lingers over one, ignoring the bloody edges.  “May I?” he asks, glancing up at her from under his eyelashes.

Felicity nods once, and Oliver takes the blade between his hands, careful to keep his fingers away from the honed edge.  When he holds it up to the light, he notices Japanese characters engraved into the top of the blade for the first time.  “It’s a beautiful piece of equipment,” he tells her, fingers running along the engravings at the top.  “What does this say?”

Carefully, she lifts the blade from his hands before giving it an experimental swing with her left hand.  It slips down the hilt when Felicity turns the sword up, but the small guard keeps the blade from slicing through her hand.  “‘He who does not punish evil commands it to be done,’” she quotes after a moment.  “Words to live by.”  Slowly, she puts the sword back in its sheath.  “These are Japanese steel,” she adds after a moment.  “Slade didn’t understand that there’s a culture to them.”  A small smile graces her face.  “I may just be a silly, Caucasian girl who likes to play with samurai swords, but I try to respect their origin.

“They have names, you know,” she admits after a minute.  “My swords, I mean.”  She shrugs.  “I know it’s kind of strange, but it gives me comfort.”  Running a hand along the hilt of the sword she just sheathed, Felicity continues, “This one is _Danzai_.”  Her eyes meet Oliver’s.  “It’s a word with multiple meanings:  judgment, condemnation, and—my personal favorite—decapitation as a form of punishment.”

She picks up the other blade, this time taking it in her right hand.  “This one is _Shinigami_ ,” she tells him.  “The literal translation is something like _god of death_ , which is kind of ominous, but _reaper_ makes more sense in English.”  She runs her fingers over the inscription.  “This message is a warning:  ‘He who fights with monsters might take care, lest he thereby become a monster.’”  She meets his eyes after sheathing it, but only for a brief second.  “I don’t want to be a monster, Oliver.”

Her voice is so quiet, so soft, that Oliver thinks she’s giving him a glance under the heavy armor she wears over her personality.  Even though he knows it’s likely to give him a broken hand, he reaches across the table to take her chin, turning her eyes back to him again.  “Hey,” he offers in a tone just as soft as hers.  “That’s one thing you should never have to worry about.”

After hearing and reading about the Vengeance of Starling, he has a difficult time comparing that creature with the woman who stands before him now.  Felicity is a survivor with a mission, created from heartache, battle, and hard decisions.  In a way, it makes her more dangerous than the papers dare to describe:  she’s endured so much that she isn’t concerned about living anymore.  She _knows_ she can meet a challenge—knows she can endure anything the world can throw at her.

She’s done it before, and she can do it again.

Sighing, she twists from his grip, only to reach for the bottle of red he brought down.  A second later, he’s on the receiving end of her glare.  “Really?  You brought me a _Lafite Rothschild?_ ”  She pushes the bottle back.  “Oliver, this is a thousand-dollar bottle of wine!  This is the kind of wine you put in a cabinet to show off, not one you drink.”

He shrugs.  “There are two more in the storeroom right now, Felicity,” he replies in an even tone.

To his surprise, Felicity rolls her eyes.  “Sometimes,” she starts slowly, “I forget just how rich you really are.  It’s kind of weird you can toss down a grand for something as trivial as a bottle of wine.”  She holds up a hand.  “Not that I don’t like my red wine—I _love_ red wine.  But, you know, not really essential to life and can be very expensive.”  She bites her lip.  “I guess what I’m trying to say is ‘thank you,’ but I’m really screwing it up right now.”

Before she can argue further, he pops the cork on the bottle of wine he brought especially for her.  “You’re welcome, Felicity,” he answers with a smile.  Frowning, he offers her the bottle.  “I don’t have any glasses.”  A glance around the base doesn’t improve his prospects.  “I’m not sure I even have any cups here.”

Felicity takes the bottle from him.  “I am _not_ going to let good wine sit here without drinking it for a trivial reason like that,” she declares.  She reaches for it but pulls her hand away at the last moment.  Then she does it again.  “I hate having to let it breathe.”  The blonde lasts two second more before taking a sip straight from the bottle.  A moment later, she offers something he might classify as a moan.  “That is probably the best wine I’ve ever had.”  She offers him the bottle back.  “I hope you don’t mind sharing with me.  I promise I don’t have any weird diseases.”

He takes a sip of the wine for himself.  Though wines aren’t his favorite, he has to admit it has a unique flavor.  “I think we’ve bled onto each other too much to worry about that now,” is his dry answer.  Though he doesn’t mean it with any seriousness, it’s probably true at this point.

Curious, he picks up one of the bottles she brought with her, and he doesn’t recognize the name of the vineyard on the merlot.  The second bottle, however, is a little more intriguing:  the bottle’s black label is printed only with silver, Japanese characters.  “Did you bring this back from Japan?” he can’t help but ask her.

Felicity’s eyes light up immediately.  “This is the one I was telling you about,” she answers.  “Yes, it came from Japan.”  She holds up the bottle.  “Eighteen-year-old Suntory Yamazaki.”  Oliver only blinks; the words mean nothing to him.  “It’s a single-malt whisky, but it’s supposed to taste like scotch.”  She takes a moment to open it before adding, “I haven’t ever tried it before.  I didn’t want to drink a five-hundred-dollar bottle by myself.”  She offers him the bottle first.  “Roy isn’t old enough to drink, and I refuse to contribute to the delinquency of a minor.  There are some crimes even _I_ won’t commit.”

Oliver takes a sip—and then another.  “That’s probably better than the last scotch I drank,” he admits after a moment, passing Felicity the bottle.  She takes a healthy swig, making a noise in the back of her throat.  “Thank you, Felicity.”

She rolls her eyes.  “You don’t have to thank me, Oliver.  You’re the one who gave up your evening to sit down here and drink with me.”

He answers that with a shrug.  Anyone who saw Felicity after tonight’s events would have stayed with her.  Perhaps not the man he was before the island, but he’s trying not to be that man anymore.  Being a friend isn’t always his strong suit, but he knows she’s worth the struggle.  “You took a few rounds,” is all he says.  “Want me to patch you up?”

Felicity places her swords on the bottom shelf of the gurney before crawling onto it herself.  She stretches one leg out to its full length, but bends the other at the knee.  It takes him a moment to realize there’s a bullet wound in her calf, and he takes another sip of the Japanese whisky to compensate.  “Yes, please, Dr. Queen,” she answers with a grin.  “Stitch me up and make me feel better.”

Oliver almost drops the five-hundred-dollar bottle of single-malt.

Immediately, she groans.  “God, it’s already starting,” she mutters to herself.  “I meant that yes, you can stitch me up.  Please.”  Felicity motions to her mouth.  “In fair warning, I have a tendency to throw out innuendos when I drink.”  At least Oliver was right about one thing tonight; she _is_ going to be the death of him.  “It’s just a slip of the tongue, though.”  She mutters something that sounds distinctly like _Freudian_ under her breath.  “Just ignore me, please.”

He’s all too glad to do just that, taking a deep breath as he moves to the corner to grab the necessary items from his first aid kit.  The amount left in his bottle of lidocaine isn’t promising.  “I don’t have enough local anesthetic to take care of both wounds,” he warns her.

Felicity pulls herself away from the bottle of Lafite Rothschild to scoff.  “Lidocaine is for dudes.”

Chuckling, Oliver shakes his head before bringing the supplies back to the gurney.  He takes her calf between his hands to examine the wound, and Felicity freezes under his touch.  “Looks like a through-and-through,” he informs her.  “At least I won’t have to dig the bullet out.”

“I bought the most adorable dress, too,” she laments, motioning to the wound.  “It ends right at the knee, though.  I won’t be able to wear it out without showing everyone a huge gunshot wound that Felicity Smoak shouldn’t have.”  She frowns.  “Is it weird that I refer to myself in the third person sometimes?”

“I understand,” Oliver assures her.  He wears so many identities every day that he isn’t sure where the mask ends and he begins.  Referring to them by name—the Arrow, Oliver Queen, Oliver the club owner—just makes it easier to separate them.  The only moments he feels like he isn’t wearing a mask—when he’s free to be just Oliver—are when he’s standing next to Felicity.  He’s just Oliver and she’s just Felicity:  broken down, remade, and trying to survive in lives that don’t feel like their own any longer.

“I know you do,” she replies as he removes the suture from the packaging.

Turning toward the bottles next to her, Felicity picks up the Russian vodka he brought home.  “I brought that back from Russia,” he informs her before she can ask.  “The Bratva practically lives on that.”  Her head tilts to the side, absorbing that new information.  “They have a salute.   _Prochnost_.  It means ‘strength.’”

“Then _prochnost_ ,” she replies before pressing her lips to the bottle.  A moment later, she leans forward in a fit of coughing, and Oliver catches the bottle just before it can shatter against the floor.  “That is _terrible!_ ” she exclaims in a hoarse voice after she finishes.  “Now I understand why all the Bratva captains are so pissed off all the time.  I would be, too, if I drank nothing but _that_.”  He can’t help but laugh, which earns him a glare.  “The guy who thought, ‘gee, I’ll ferment a potato and make alcohol from it,’ deserves _exactly_ this torment.”  She takes the bottle from Oliver’s hand.  “But, on the bright side, it’s more alcohol than potato at this point.”  With that, she pours a little on the hole in her calf.

Taking the bottle from her hands, he only answers, “I have rubbing alcohol for that, Felicity.”  She doesn’t flinch at his glare, only shrugging, and it’s then Oliver decides he’s going to need more alcohol in his system to survive tonight.  He takes a healthy swig from the bottle of vodka before sliding the suture needle into her leg.

He’s never stitched her up while she’s been conscious before, but Felicity doesn’t even flinch.  She only watches him as she sips on the bottle of Bordeaux, as though she doesn’t even feel it.  After a long moment of silence, she points toward the back of the basement.  “What the hell is that thing?”

After following her gaze, he replies, “It’s a salmon ladder.  I use it as part of my training.”  Her brow only furrows.  “As soon as I finish here, I’ll show you how to use it.”

As soon as he ties off the suture, she lifts her shirt a fraction to expose the second bullet she took tonight.  It’s on the right side of her abdomen, just above the Fenghuang Cartel’s brand inked into her skin.  The mark makes him stop short for a moment.

Though Felicity’s eyes are a little unfocused, she misses nothing.  “I know you saw it before,” she admits, head tilting to the side.  “The night we met.  But you never asked.”  Her laugh turns bitter.  “They killed my father, they took me prisoner, and they broke me down until I wanted to die—but yet I joined them.”

The only response he offers is, “You never asked me about the island.”  Though she may not understand it from his perspective, she can understand it from her own:  asking about the worst parts of each other’s lives is insensitive.  Since he’s been home, everyone has asked him to open up and face demons he isn’t ready to fight.  And he would never wish that on Felicity.  “But if you ever need to tell anyone about what you went through,” he assures her, “you can tell me.”

“I know that,” she answers quietly, lying back against the table.  After a long silence where the only sound is the bullet in her abdomen hitting the metal tray, she finally admits, “After I tried walking back into Felicity Kuttler’s life, I needed… something more.”  She waves a hand, accidentally smacking him in the shoulder.  “I mean, these men _did that_ to us, and they just went on about their lives like nothing had happened, while _I_ had to pick up the pieces of my life.  That wasn’t right.

“You know how the Fenghuang is,” she continues as he puts the first suture in her side.  She winces, but continues talking like nothing happened.  “There’s a reason the police don’t have anything on them—they keep everything quiet.  Anyone they _think_ is going to talk dies.  So I just… I infiltrated them myself.”  She shrugs, like it’s that simple to go undercover in one of the biggest organized crime rings in the world.  “They needed a hacker who could stay one step ahead of the police.  I made an alias and introduced myself as Rebecca Kane.   Zhang Jiao, the leader of the Starling branch of the Fenghuang, was very pleased.”  She laughs bitterly.  “And for a few months, I was their _hēikè yāoguài_ —their hacker-demon.  That’s what they called me.  I found out everything I need to know and disappeared.  Now I can pick them off however _I_ want to, whenever I want.”

She laughs, though it becomes an “ow” as the motion causes him to stick her with the needle in her hip.  “The funny thing about _yāoguài_ is that it can also mean ‘monster,’” she continues in a pleasant tone.  “Kind of poetic, really.  Now they call me _yāoguài_ , but it’s not because I’m their precious hacker-demon.  I’m not the monster they thought I was, but I am the one they created.”  He ties off the suture as she slides off the gurney.  “And really, the Fenghuang was the architect of its own demise.  They created… whatever I am now, only to tear them down.  Like Frankenstein’s monster.”

When Felicity reaches for the bottle of cheap merlot she brought, Oliver snatches it away.  “You should slow down a little, Felicity,” he warns her.  If she’s waxing poetic like this, it’s probably a good sign she’s on her way to a bad hangover.  She starts to glare at him, so he offers the reasoning behind that statement:  “You won’t be able to do the salmon ladder drunk.”

“Don’t underestimate drunk-me’s abilities,” is her reply, though she trades the wine for an unopened bottle of water sitting on his desk.  “I was drunk the first time I hacked the Pentagon.”  She waves a hand as his eyebrows shoot up.  “I woke up in the morning with their mainframe opened on a blank laptop I must have rigged together that night.  I had to quickly disconnect from the Internet, transfer classified files to a stick, and torch the computer before the entire alphabet soup showed up at my dorm.”  Her head tilts to the side. “I’m still not sure MIT has any idea why the NSA was poking around.  Thank God my dad taught me how to beat a polygraph.”  She makes a noise in her throat.  “By the way?  We were doing some _really_ bad stuff in Hong Kong in 2010.”

Oliver just shakes his head, biting back a chuckle.  “I know,” is his reply.  “That’s when I was _in_ Hong Kong.”

She points at him, gaping for a moment.  “ _You_ were the blacked-out name of the ARGUS asset.”  Her eyes go wide.  “Oh, frack.  Do you have any idea what the big picture was of that mission?”

“No, but don’t say anything else,” he teases.  “I’d rather not be an accomplice to treason.”  Her retort is something like _wuss_ , but he doesn’t catch all of it.  Instead, he pulls on his weightlifting gloves and puts the bar in place on the third rung of the ladder.

Felicity groans when he pulls off his shirt.  “Really?  The shirt just _has_ to be off?” she demands.  Before he can answer, she adds, “I’m not going to pay attention to anything you’re doing.  You know that, right?  I mean, this whole place could burn down and I wouldn’t notice because I’m too busy staring at…”  A hand waves in his general direction.  “ _That_ work of art right in my face.”  She makes a noise in her throat.  “I’m not going to survive this night.”

Unable to speak for a moment, Oliver can do nothing but agree with her last statement.  Things are far less complicated when Felicity is firmly in control of her own tongue.  …And somehow that sentence feels like one of her many innuendos, but he tries to file that away in a box that will never be opened again.  He does _not_ need to be thinking about her attraction to him or her innuendos—and definitely not her tongue.

After shaking his head once, Oliver hangs from the bar, swinging it once to gain momentum to shift to the next rung.  It’s more relaxing than he expects—even with Felicity watching—and it reminds him why this is one of his favorite exercises.  Deep breath, jump.  Deep breath, jump.  Once he reaches the top, he works his way back down to stand in front of her again.  Instead of speaking, he holds the bar out to her in a silent offer.

Not one to back down from a challenge, Felicity takes it, planting her feet on the mat before sliding the bar into the third rung, the one just above her head.  Instead of taking his gloves from him, she points to a roll of tape on top of one of the training dummies.  “Can I use your athletic tape?” she asks and he only nods in reply.

Transfixed, Oliver watches as she tears the tape from the roll and then in half.  She wraps a section from her ring finger to the base of her palm, then tapes it in place around her wrist.  The action is repeated with her right hand, and she flexes it several times.

“You’ve done this before,” Oliver accuses.

Felicity only smiles.  “Never a salmon ladder,” she assures him as she walks back to the mats.  “The rest is my secret.”  She motions to him.  “Can you spot me?  It’s been a while.”  She motions to one end of the salmon ladder, and he does as she asks with narrowed eyebrows and a smile.  He can’t help but wonder when she’ll stop surprising him, but then he decides that will never happen.

With that, she grips the bar, jumping to catch it.  She swings once, twice, and a third time before performing a handstand on the bar before allowing herself to descend.  This time, when she swings, Felicity takes the bar with her, sliding it into the slot above.  After hanging there a moment with wide eyes, she does it again, pushing the bar up another rung.

Instead of stopping, she only uses the momentum to pull herself into another handstand, this time taking one hand off the bar to perform a full spin before dropping a rung on the ladder.  While he watches with wide eyes, she only swings herself forward as a dismount, sticking the landing like a gymnast.

Flexing her hands, she remarks, “That used to be easier.”  When Oliver lifts an eyebrow, she explains, “I was on a gymnastics team in high school, and I like to keep up the workout.  Upper body strength helps with the swords.”  She frowns down at her legs.  “But after you almost killed me with cardio this evening, I’m starting to think that maybe I should start running again.”

Oliver laughs.  “You survived Japan by learning to fight in contained quarters,” is his reply.  “I survived the island by learning to move quickly and quietly.”

She rolls her shoulders before discarding her wraps in a trash can.  “Speaking of close quarters,” Felicity says with a smirk, “want to see how you and I match up?”  A moment later, she cringes.  “And that sounded like a come-on.  I meant that you don’t have a bow I can handle, and I sure as hell don’t have any swords you can handle, so do you want to try hand-to-hand?”  She holds up her hands as if preparing for bare-knuckle boxing.  “ _Mano a mano_?”  Motioning between the two of them, the vigilante adds, “Loser has to take a drink?”

In response, Oliver reaches for the roll of tape and starts taping his hands while Felicity takes a healthy pull from the water bottle she took.  “I hope you’re prepared to have a hangover, Miss Smoak,” is his reply, grinning at her.

Felicity only winks in reply.  “I could say the same to you, Mr. Queen.”

 

* * *

 

Sweat drips down into Oliver’s eyes as he blocks another of Felicity’s lightning-fast blows just before she can land a punch to his kidney.  He can’t help but throw her a look as he does so; they promised to take it easy on one another.  Apparently her definition of _taking it easy_ includes urinating blood for a week.

The small blonde only shrugs as she slides out of his reach again.  Wet strands of hair slide from her ponytail and fall into her eyes, but she doesn’t give an inch.  Despite the seeping stitches in her calf and the wet spot on her side he suspects is blood, she keeps moving, refusing to stop or back down.  Tonight he’s discovered something new about Felicity Smoak:  she plays to win.

That’s something they have in common.

This time he takes the charge against her, but she only slips a leg out in front of his.  Though it normally wouldn’t be enough to throw him off-balance, the weight of the alcohol in his system makes him stagger as the room spins.  Surprised by the sudden change in balance, he grabs the first thing within reach.

That happens to be Felicity’s arm.

She topples with him, hitting the mat just as hard.  Neither of them speak, but Oliver pats her shoulder twice in the silence.  She returns the gesture by placing her hand on top of his and squeezing as they both try to catch their breath.

As Oliver stares up at a ceiling that seems much brighter than before, he can feel Felicity roll over and grab the two clinking bottles of alcohol.  “I’m willing to call that a tie,” she declares, sloshing her bottle of merlot.  He glances down at his vodka; there might be two drinks left in it.  The victor is clear—mostly because she isn’t even slurring her words yet.  “Never let it be said that Felicity Smoak is not gracious in victory.”

Though Oliver attempts to roll his eyes, the action makes the room spin.  “So… neither of us drink?” he asks, frowning.  How is it that she’s had enough alcohol to knock down two women her size and _he’s_ the one slurring his words?

Snorting Felicity answers, “Look at _you_ , being all mid-nineties little league coach and giving everyone a medal for participation.”  She pokes his temple.  “But that is _not_ the Kuttler way.  If neither of us had a clear victory, then no one won and we all lost.  We both drink.”

Sighing, they both groan before pulling themselves into sitting positions to finish off the last round for the night.  Felicity collapses back on the mats, and he can’t help but motion between the few ounces of merlot circling the bottom of the bottle, and then to her small stature.  “You’re going to wish you didn’t have that last drink in the morning,” he warns her.

“Not me.  I hydrated,” she retorts with a smug smile.  She waves a hand with lime green fingernails in his face.  “And I won’t regret it as much as you will.  When is the last time you got drunk?”

It takes him a while longer than he should to answer, his brain sluggish.  The resulting answer makes him scowl.  “Five years ago,” he admits after a moment.  “It was the night before the _Gambit_ left for China.  Tommy insisted on throwing me a send-off party.”  He wracks his brain for details.  “I don’t remember any of it.”

Felicity pokes a finger into her breastbone.  “My last drunken escapade was right before I met you, actually,” is her reply.  She frowns, too, closing her eyes.  “My mom called.  Wanted to talk about the fact that I’m terminally single.  Again.”  Holding up an index finger, she adds, “I keep a bottle of wine back for when my mother calls.”

Oliver wags his own index finger at her.  “That… is a good idea,” he admits before collapsing on the mats next to her again.  Staying upright requires more power than he has right now.  “I should do that,” he declares.  “For when my mother wants to pretend I’m my father.”  He frowns, realizing his thought wasn’t clear.  “Not your mother.  I don’t even _know_ your mother.”

“I thought _I_ was supposed to be the one speaking in sentence fragments,” she teases.  “But yeah, you should _definitely_ do that.  It’s easy to see who you get your scary factor from—she wigs me out a little.  Your mom, I mean.”  She waves a hand to backtrack.  “Not that I know your mother personally or anything, but I’ve seen her on television.  On the terrifying scale from one to ten, she’s an _easy_ seventeen.”

Felicity actually _shudders_ after a moment.  Oliver bites back a laugh she wouldn’t appreciate; the great Vengeance of Starling is afraid of his mother.  “Something about her just screams, ‘I will incinerate you and use your ashes for dramatically bold eyeshadow.’”  She waves a hand lazily in the air.  “And I don’t trust any woman whose hair _does not move_.”  Her eyes go wide at the thought.  “That defies the natural order.”

A laugh escapes his lips without permission, about two octaves higher than normal.  Possibly _three_ octaves.  His mom might be a little intimidating, sure, but Felicity takes on _gun runners_ every night of her life.  It’s like finding out the boogeyman is afraid of kittens.  That makes another too-high-pitched laugh leave his lips.  “What is _your_ mother like?” he asks once he sobers.  Well, sobers from laughter, anyway.

A laugh is her first reply.  “She’s where I get _my_ scary factor from,” Felicity answers, “but for entirely different reasons.”  She pauses for a moment, smiling as she rolls over to look at him.  “She’s like the polar opposite of your mother.”  Tracing a line of what he assumes to be code into the mat, she continues, “My _bubbe_ was diagnosed with cancer when my mom was fifteen.  Her dad—my _zayde_ —spent most of his life in an alcoholic stupor, so he pulled my mom out of school to care for her.  A year later, _Bubbe_ was in remission and my mother earned her GED.”

She’s quiet for so long that Oliver thinks that’s all she’s going to say on the subject, but Felicity finally smiles over at him.  “My mom is one of the strongest people I know.  She will literally kill you with kindness because she’s happy _all the time_.”  The exasperation in her tone is overwhelmed by the fondness in her eyes and smile.  “Like, without medication.  Even in the morning.  Which also defies the natural order.”  They both chuckle at that.  Quietly, she admits, “We don’t always get along and I have more than a few issues with her right now, but I also have a lot of respect for my mom.”

Oliver turns to look at her, and the blonde sighs before continuing, “My dad wasn’t always the tech wizard at Kord Industries, you know.  When I was growing up, he was an unemployed, genius inventor struggling to find someone who would take him seriously.  We… we didn’t have a lot.”  Oliver covers her hand with his own, but she slides hers on top, drawing a series of zeroes and ones on the back of his hand.  “But my mother kept us going.  Remember that nightclub that used to be where Poison is now?”

It takes Oliver a moment to pinpoint that, but then it clicks.  “Yeah.  It was called Luxe, right?”  Somehow he remembers he and Tommy in one of the VIP booths on the second floor, the walls and furniture both themed in gaudy gold shades.

She immediately rolls her eyes.  “I don’t want to know how you remember that,” she decides after a moment.  “But yeah, that one.  My mom used to wait tables there at night.  During the day, she worked the VIP tables at the casino down on the waterfront.  Worked for tips eighty hours a week.”  She points a finger at him before adding with weight, “In five-inch heels.”  Felicity places a hand to her breastbone.  “I’m like the white girl version of _The Last Samurai_ , and _I_ couldn’t work eighty hours a week in five-inch heels.”

“Sounds like an incredible person,” he admits carefully.

“She is,” Felicity agrees.  “I mean, she _did_ try to have me committed, but part of me understands that she was trying to help me.  The frustrating part was that no one _asked_ me what I needed.”  She falls back against the mat.  “Everyone was so determined to help me that they _forced_ their help on me—whether I wanted it or not.”  She motions to Oliver.  “Which is probably what you’re going through right now.”  He nods once.

“The _last_ thing I wanted after being at someone else’s mercy for seven months was another person making decisions for me.”  She throws her hand out in front of her, slicing the air once.  “The best thing I ever did was pick up the swords and go down to the waterfront to take out some gang members.”  She shrugs.  “Not for them, I guess, but it made me feel like I was free again.  Like Japan, except I had control over my situation.”

“Until I put on the hood,” Oliver admits slowly, “I felt like a part of me was missing.  Things didn’t make sense.  I thought it was adjustment—trying to remember what it was like when I didn’t have to worry about living through each day—but then I realized something was missing.”  He nods toward the bag that contains his suit in the corner.  “The hood filled that part of me again.”

“We aren’t tormented by the violence,” Felicity concludes for him.  “We _need_ it.”  Her head twists to the side.  “Does that make us psychopaths?”

“No,” Oliver assures her.  There are few things he’s certain of, but he knows that isn’t right.  Quietly, he adds, “I think that makes us broken.”

“That makes me think of _kintsukuroi_ ,” she replies immediately.  He only frowns; Oliver’s brain isn’t processing new languages tonight.  “That’s a Japanese pottery art.  Broken pottery is put together with metallic finish.”  She smiles.  “It’s supposed to be that much more beautiful because it’s been broken once.”

While he might understand that in the morning, it might as well be quantum physics to him tonight.  Next time, he’s going to stay sober when Felicity is drinking; maybe then he’ll have some chance of understanding her.  “You said something about hypervigilance earlier,” he remembers.  “Do you have that a lot?”

“Yeah,” she answers.  “All the time.  I watch for threats when normal people don’t.”

“I always do that,” he replies.  “I attacked my mother once because she woke me when I was dreaming about the island.”  The shame burns more now than it did at the time.  “She wants me to talk to a psychologist about it.”

The noise in the back of her throat is noncommittal.  “You should if you want to,” is Felicity’s reply.  “If it makes you feel better, do it.  If it would make you uncomfortable, then you shouldn’t.”  She pats his shoulder.  “Your life, your choice, Oliver.  Don’t forget that.”

A moment later, she rises to her feet, listing a little to the side in the process.  “I’m going to get my sweatshirt,” Felicity informs him.  “I’m starting to cool off.”  She digs her feet into the mat.  “Would it be weird if I said I wanted to sleep on the mats?”  Pointing to the corner, she adds, “Sleeping on your cot wouldn’t be right—if you even wanted me to, I mean—and I don’t want to wake up achy on this concrete floor.”

“That’s fine,” he assures her with a sigh, reaching for the shirt he discarded at the edge of the ring.  A second later—maybe a _few_ seconds later—he manages to pull it back on.  “There’s a blanket and a pillow under the cot if you want them.”  He sighs as he lies back on the cool mats.  “I’d get them, but I don’t think I’m going to be able to stand up for a few hours.”

“Told you to hydrate,” she reminds him.  Oliver tilts his head back to glance at her, but immediately closes his eyes when he sees the bare strip of flesh just above the top of her jeans.  That isn’t something he needs to look at right now—not when his inhibitions are low and he’s starting to realize the physical attraction he feels toward her.  “But yeah, I’ll grab your equipment.”  She groans.  “I mean the blanket and pillow.”

He closes his eyes as things start to spin again, and when Felicity speaks, it’s from the other side of the room.  “Thanks for doing this,” she tells him again.  Before he can assure her that she doesn’t have to thank him, she adds, “Tonight was hard.”  Her tone causes Oliver to glance over at her, reaching under the cot to pick up his blanket and pillow.  “I know I didn’t know him, but it was a senseless death, Oliver.  I feel like we all die a bit inside on those.”

She staggers as she stands upright, and he wonders again how she isn’t slurring her words right now.  “It’s like ‘Meditation Seventeen.’”  He can only stare at her blankly, and she growls under her breath.  “One of the hardest things I have to deal with is your aversion to classic literature.  It’s a poem by John Donne.”  She waves the pillow in the air.  “It goes something like, ‘Each man’s death diminishes me, for I am involved in mankind.  Therefore, send not to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.'”

The buzzing in Oliver’s head is beyond the hidden riddles of poetry.  “I have no idea what you’re saying,” he admits.  If she sounds eloquent, he sounds like a three-day bender by comparison.

Felicity rolls her eyes—and nearly falls in the process, leaning against one of the support columns to steady herself.  “Every time someone is killed like that, we die a little on the inside,” she explains.  “That’s what he’s trying to say.  We both lost a part of ourselves tonight when that man lost his life.”

Oliver sighs as his head throbs again.  “Felicity, can we please have this conversation when we’re sober?”

“I can’t guarantee I’ll remember it later,” is her reply.  She drops the blanket and pillow next to him, stopping to make gestures with her hands that he doubts he would understand if he _wasn’t_ completely wasted.  “I feel like I’m having a real epiphany here, Oliver.”  All he can do for a moment is wonder how the hell she managed to say the word _epiphany_ perfectly when she can barely stand upright.  “Like I’m on the verge of understanding something greater, you know?”

Running a hand over his face, Oliver declares, “If I knew you were like this when you’re drunk, I would have cut us off hours ago.”  Usually he’s a carefree drunk himself, but he has a feeling he’s already in the beginning stages of a hangover and he needs her to take it down a notch.  Maybe _five_ notches.  “You’re not having an…”  No way is he going to try to say a word he can’t pronounce correctly when sober.  “A revelation, Felicity,” he finally decides.  “You’re just drunk.”

“ _In vino veritas_ ,” is her reply.  Oliver groans; not only is she a drunk philosopher, but now she’s throwing Latin into the mix.  The mats shift as she plops down next to him, dropping the pillow over his face.  He tucks it behind his head as she throws the blanket over both of them.  “In wine, there is truth, Oliver.”

“Not _that_ much truth,” he retorts.  Her head drops onto his chest as she mutters something about a stolen pillow, and he can’t help but smile over at her.  If he presses his lips to the top of her head, it’s something he’ll take to his grave.  Quietly, he adds, “Goodnight, Felicity.”

She mutters into his chest, “Goodnight, Oliver.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elsie, my beta, has informed me that this chapter shares a lot of similarities to episode 5x20 of Arrow. I haven't seen it yet, but if there's anything similar, it sort of just happened by accident. I'd be glad to hear your thoughts on the comparison, though! :)


	4. Out of the Woods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things might be better in the light of day, but not exactly for Oliver and Felicity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I started working on posting this before 7 this morning. Real life caught up to me again.
> 
> I am so excited to be sharing this chapter with you, but at the same time, I'm a little sad to see this fic end. It was a blast to write.
> 
> Thank you so much for all your love and support on this thing! I really appreciate it!

Everything is too bright.  That’s the first thought that crosses Felicity’s mind as she opens her eyes, squinting against the light in the room that she knows isn’t all that bright.  Hello, hangover.  It’s too bright and it’s too hot, like she’s stuck in a sweatbox.  And her contacts are gritty, too.  Maybe she’s died and this is Hell.

Only then does Felicity realize something heavy is thrown over her hip.  Frowning, she reaches down, only to be met with the feel of skin under her fingertips.  “ _That_ is an arm,” she says aloud.  More importantly, it isn’t _her_ arm.  Eyes going wide, she turns to find Oliver, eyes closed and breathing evenly.

Scurrying as though she’s staring down a barrel of a Yakuza gun, Felicity wrenches out of his grip, scrambling back a good five feet to observe the scene.  The bad news is that somehow she ended up sleeping with Oliver—to be determined if that’s a euphemism or not.  The good news is this isn’t her bed.  Actually, it isn’t a bed at all.  It’s a mat, down in Oliver’s Arrow lair.

“What the hell happened last night?” she demands.

Sleeping Oliver doesn’t answer.  Rude.

“Okay, Smoak,” she declares, running a hand through her loose, slightly disgusting hair.  There was definitely a lot of sweating last night—to be determined why.  “Pull yourself together.”  She tries to pull back any memories, but the last thing she can remember is Oliver getting all sweaty using the salmon ladder.  While a nice image, it isn’t exactly helpful.  His watch on the edge of the mat, however, is very helpful.  She checks it:  5:13 AM.  She’s barely lost any time, then.

“Morning checklist,” she mutters under her breath, thinking back to the first days after Japan when she ended up in bed with her ex-asshole.  Between the nightmares and the unfamiliar surroundings, sometimes she woke up like this, disoriented and one step away from hitting someone.  At least she was _used_ to it back then.

“Clothes?”  She reaches down to touch her chest, pleased to find she’s in her sweatshirt and jeans, and her athletic clothes are crumpled on top of her bag.  There must have been a workout last night—and this time she _knows_ that isn’t a euphemism.  “Yes, definitely.  Good.”  She sighs.  “No drunken sex with the best friend you are sexually attracted to is good.”  The words sound flat to her own ears.  While her mind might be happy with that revelation, there’s no denying that Oliver Queen is a tree her body would very much like to climb.  “Yay celibacy.”

The next thought blurts from her mouth:  “Phone.”  She glances around, only to see the case shining on top of the desk with the monstrosity Oliver calls a computer.  “Just found it.  Good.  Now keys.”  She glances around for a moment before dismissing the thought with a wave of her hand.  “Didn’t drive here, so they’re in my bag.”

She leans forward, pressing her forehead to her knees, taking a deep breath.  “Sanity?” she calls, noting the next item on her list.  Nothing happens.  “Sanity?”  This time, she rises to her feet with a sigh.  “And, look, we have a runner.”

Everything aches when she tries to move.  “Apparently, my sanity is the _only_ runner today,” Felicity mutters to herself.  “Oliver, I hope you have a shower down here because I am _not_ doing a walk of shame if I have another option.”  She glares down at his sleeping form.  “Why didn’t you have the good grace to wake up first and leave?”

The last time they shared a bed together, that’s what he had done.  By the time she woke up the next morning, Felicity was left with only a very masculine cologne lingering on her sheets.  That she could deal with; yes, he slept in her bed, but she didn’t have to handle all the implications that came with it in the morning.  They both pretended it never happened.  Denial may just be a river in Egypt, but it’s a good river.  She likes that river.

Right now, her river is dry, and her boat is stuck in the mud.

“Ugh, hangover metaphors,” she mutters.  Glancing over at the door on the far side of the lair, Felicity decides to risk it.  After going to fetch her bag, she walks up to it, placing a hand on the doorknob before whispering, “Please be a bathroom and not some kind of…”  She can’t even finish the thought; there are too many kinds of weird rooms it could be that she definitely does _not_ want it to be.  “If this is filled with pink unicorns, Smoak,” she mutters to herself, “you are walking out of here and never speaking of it again.”

She winces, closing her eyes as she twists the knob.  A moment later, opens her eyes to a pristine, no-nonsense bathroom, fully stocked.  “There is a God, and He is good,” she breathes out.  A few moments later, the door is locked and she’s under the spray of a blissfully hot shower, looking around for shampoo options.

There’s only one: a two-in-one shampoo and body wash combo that smells like every product with _for men_ on the label ever created.  After deciding that smelling like generic masculinity and last night’s regrets is better than sweat-soaked hair, she grabs it.

Halfway through lathering her hair, a memory from last night hits her.  Felicity stops cold, eyes widening as she remembers the feel of Oliver’s lips against the top of her head before he said goodnight.  “Bad Felicity,” she chastises herself, shaking her head and sending soap everywhere.  “No.  That never happened.  Oliver did _not_ kiss you.  Not last night, not that first night you met.  Never.”  She stops before allowing, “Well, maybe that one time in your dreams, but you are not in control of your subconscious.  Let that thought go _right now_.”

Ten minutes later, she’s pulling on the fresh pair of jeans and the blue t-shirt she packed, hair pulled into a messy bun that doesn’t drip water down her neck.  She removes her contacts, flushes her eyes with water, and sighs in contentment when she slips on her glasses.

Felicity exits the bathroom, surprised to find Oliver still asleep on the mats, but curled on his side now.  She didn’t think he _ever_ slept.  Maybe he’s making up for that today.  Sleep is so rare for him that waking him now seems cruel, so she’ll take the chance that Tommy is still upstairs.  Uncertain what to do, she takes a pen from the desk, dropping her bag to go back to the mats.  She crouches over him, picking up his extended right arm.  Gnawing at her lip, she scribbles a message on his arm.

After nodding twice at her work, she makes the slow ascent up the stairs, glancing back at Oliver before she leaves.

 

* * *

 

As he tries to move a case of wine out of the cellar and into the cooler below the bar, Tommy knocks against something that isn’t the wall.  A glance over his shoulder reveals blonde hair, and it takes him a moment to realize why anyone would be in the bar at this hour.  It takes another moment to realize she smells like Ollie’s shampoo.  Well, then.  His girl must have stayed the night.

Setting the case on the ground, he turns to her with a polished smile.  “Hey, blonde and beautiful,” he teases in greeting.  A second glance reveals that she’s more beautiful than he originally thought.  It’s a weird kind of beautiful; her hair is falling out of its elastic and the only makeup she’s sporting is a pink so bright he needs sunglasses to look at it.  “How are you this morning?”

The blonde—Felicity; he needs to remember her name—rolls her eyes at his attempt at civility, brushing it off like a speck of dust on her leather jacket.  “Not a morning person,” is her reply, in that low voice that sounds like sin.  What kind of sin, Tommy isn’t sure; it could be murder just as easily as it could be sex.  All part of Blondie’s charm.  “Also, if you call me that again, I’ll cut out your tongue.”  She punctuates the thought with a smile so sweet it sends chills down his spine.  This time he’s certain:  murder.  The sin in her voice is definitely murder.  She motions to the case.  “Let me help you with that.”

Unable to resist as he takes the other end of the box, he asks, “What’s the matter with you?  Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed?”

“Mats, actually,” she mutters under her breath.  Before he can ask what she means, Blondie says, “Where do you want this case?”

“Behind the bar is fine,” he assures her, motioning.  They set it down a moment later, and he throws her another grin.  It’s shut down just as quickly, and Tommy is starting to understand why Ollie likes this girl so much.  “So, you’ve helped me.”  He claps his hands together as she takes a seat at the bar, wincing as she slides onto it gingerly.  Apparently Ollie got in a little more than some vigilante practice last night.  “What can I do for you?”

“Coffee,” is her immediate response, leaning both arms against the bar.  Blondie strips off her jacket, throwing it on the counter next to her.  Underneath, she’s wearing a light blue t-shirt with a wolf on it.  The words inside read, _Throw me to the wolves and I will return leading the pack._  Of that, Tommy has no doubt.  A moment later, she adds, “If you have it.”

“I do,” Tommy replies, “but you don’t want any.”  He makes a face before leaning in to add, “It’s terrible.”

Her head tilts to the side.  “Okay, I’m going to ask:  Why do you serve terrible coffee if you _know_ it’s terrible?”

He shrugs.  “Anyone who orders coffee at a bar deserves terrible coffee.”

In one of the most adorable things Tommy’s seen recently, Blondie’s mouth opens several times without sound.  Finally, she shakes her head before waving a hand.  “You know what?  I will tear apart your shitty logic later when I _don’t_ have a hangover.”  He laughs without meaning to.  “How about a bloody Mary and a pretzel?”

“That we have, Blondie,” is Tommy’s answer, producing a bag of pretzel sticks on the counter.  “Bloody Mary, coming right up.”

Making a noise in the back of her throat, Blondie declares, “Tommy, this is the list of acceptable things to call me,” she announces as Tommy prepares her drink.  “Felicity.”  She waves a hand.  “That’s it.  That’s the list.  No nicknames.”

“Hey, lighten up, sunshine,” he replies with a wink, dropping the cocktail in front of her.  “I’m just screwing with you.”  Her previous thought dawns on him, and he frowns.  “Wait, how much did you drink last night?”  It’s probably been five years since Oliver got good and wasted, which means he’s probably heaving his guts up right now.

“Not nearly as much as Oliver,” she replies, taking a sip of her drink.  Again Tommy notices the name:    _Oliver_ , not _Ollie_.  No one under the age of thirty calls him Oliver—except, apparently, Felicity.  There has to be a story in there somewhere.  “In case you’re wondering if I killed him and buried his body in the woods, he’s downstairs sleeping it off.  I didn’t want to wake him.”  She stops to chew on a pretzel.  “It’s a miracle when he sleeps through the night.”

Apparently her thing with Ollie is not a _new thing_ , then.  One of the more frustrating things about the new-and-improved Ollie is his ability to keep secrets; once upon a time, Tommy knew everything about his best friend’s life, but no longer.

Instead of dwelling on the parts of his best friend that are different, he leans against the bar, staring at the blonde with eyes like murder.  “So…”  He trails off.   _Felicity_ is a mouthful, and shortening it is out of the question because he doesn’t want to die today.  “What’s your last name again?”

“Smoak,” she answers, clicking the _k_.

Yeah.  That, Tommy can work with.  “So, Smoak,” he tries again, but stops short.  “Can I call you ‘Smoak,’ or is that not acceptable?”

“I’ll allow it, Merlyn,” she answers with a slight grin.  It’s more than he’s gotten this entire conversation, so he takes it as a win.

He can work with _Merlyn_ , too.  “So, Smoak,” he starts for the third time, “are you and Oliver…?”  He trails off, allowing her to fill in the blank.

She leans across the bar before countering, “Are Oliver and I what, exactly?”  He starts to abort, but she takes mercy on him.  Maybe he’s starting to grow on her.  “Partners, I guess.  Friends?”  It comes out as a question, her eyebrows knitting together.  “Kind of?  Maybe?  I don’t know.  He’s the Arrow, and occasionally, when his cases interest me, I provide my services.”

“Which are?” Tommy hedges.

Smoak grins like the _Mona Lisa_ :  enigmatic and dangerous.  “Many and varied,” she replies, taking another sip of her drink.  “Like my sins.”  If she’d winked, he would have asked for details, but her eyes are hard enough to make him wonder how many bodies she’s buried.  It’s tempered by that challenge in her smile, as if to say, _You won’t earn my secrets that easily, Merlyn_.  Something tells him he isn’t up to the task of trying.

He slides a stool from in front of the register down to where she sits, sitting down and leaning on the bar opposite her.  “Okay, so that’s off-limits,” he answers instead.  After a moment of thought, Tommy tries, “Can I ask how you _started_ this partnership with Ollie?”

“Open auditions,” she quips without missing a beat.  “There was a casting call.  ‘Wanted:  female hacker, mid-twenties, to work tech support for Arrow.’”  She stops for a moment to chew on her straw with a wicked smile.  “It was a big deal.  I’m surprised you didn’t hear about it.”

Though he should probably be frustrated with her cryptic answer, Tommy can’t help but laugh.  “Okay, so how you two met is off-limits, too,” he notes aloud.  “How about…”  He stops to think.  There isn’t much more he wants to know about her; the rest are just details he’ll pick up later.  “ _Why_ are you helping Ollie?”  He frowns suddenly.  “I mean, half this city views him as a killer, but you paint him as a hero.”

“He is a hero,” she retorts, smile slipping off her face.

“He _kills people_ ,” Tommy answers.  It’s hard to wrap his mind around that part.

“I didn’t say he was a saint,” Smoak counters.  “And, I mean, what kind of counterargument is that to say his actions aren’t heroic?”  She taps her fingernails across the bar, and for the first time he realizes they’re painted lime green.  “Cops kill people.  Soldiers kill people.  Would you say either of those were less heroic for it?”

Tommy shakes his head.  “Cops have to defend innocent lives,” he disagrees.  “Soldiers have to fight a war.  It’s not—“

Throwing her arm out wide, Smoak leans across the bar to motion outside the club.  “Do you think it _isn’t_ war out there on the streets?” she demands.  “Every day, someone dies in the Glades.  Wrong person, wrong place, wrong time.  Bad things happen to good people all the time.  The good cops try to stop it, but it isn’t always enough for the legal system.  The crooked ones just take a bribe to sweep it under the rug.  Someone incorruptible has to stand up for the victims who can’t get justice.”  She throws her hands up.  “I don’t see anyone else volunteering.

“There are people out there who have been deeply _wronged_ , Merlyn,” she continues.  “People who can’t turn to the legal system, people who can’t fight their own battles.”  She throws an arm out.  “I mean, we live in a world where a criminal gang can kill eight people on the street.  They can kidnap someone, hold them hostage, and beat the living hell out of them every day for seven months.  They can leave that hostage in the constant fear that they’re going to die.  They can leave that hostage in constant fear that they’re going to _live_.”  She mimes a cloud of smoke with her hands.  “And then they can just disappear without repercussions—without _justice_.”

The words are out of Tommy’s mouth before he can stop them:  “Is that what happened to _you?_ ”

Maybe he’s reading too much into it.  Maybe he’s imagining things.  But since he met Felicity Smoak, there’s been some sort of subtext of past trauma.  The way she stayed stiff as a board around Laurel and him last night.  The way her eyes flick across the room to watch her surroundings.  The aversion to touch Ollie mentioned.  A lot of the things he recognizes as different in her are the same changes he’s noticed in his best friend since he’s arrived home.

After taking a huge drink of her cocktail, she says into it, “Yeah.  Three years ago in Japan.”  She glances up to meet his eyes, and he finds something hard and cold there—not dissimilar to what he sees in his best friend sometimes.  Slowly, he’s starting to understand why Ollie let Felicity, a total stranger, into his life:  she understands his struggles now because she’s _lived_ them.  “I had to earn my freedom—and I didn’t have someone like Oliver to save me.”

Heavy has never been his strong suit.  It makes Tommy nervous, probably because he’s lived a mostly normal and happy life.  He lost his mom when he was a kid, but he had a huge support team that helped to fill the void left behind.  So, when faced with someone else’s struggles, he doesn’t know how to answer.  Especially not something like this.

“I have a feeling you didn’t need to be saved,” is his reply.

She offers him a slight smile.  “It took me some time and encouragement to figure that out,” she admits after a moment, “but yeah.”  Motioning toward the city, Felicity  adds, “Not everyone is that lucky, though.  Like those girls the Bratva smuggled into the city.  A guy with a bow and a green hood swoops in and saves them from the sex trade.”  She crosses her arms.   _“That’s_ why they need the Arrow—sometimes people _can’t_ save themselves.”

Whatever she reads in Tommy’s face causes her to sigh.  “Look, just… just give him a chance, okay?”  She waves a hand.  “Push this debate away and _watch_ him try to save this city.  Then decide if he’s a monster for yourself.”

Tommy nods once before nodding toward her.  “Ollie needs this, you know,” he tells her.  “Your… unwavering faith or whatever.”  Suddenly he sees Smoak in a whole new light; not a lot of people would take time to defend someone who they’d hesitate to call a friend.  While he still isn’t sure if she’s Ollie’s type or not, he’s fairly certain that Ollie is _hers_.

Shrugging, Smoak only leans across the bar.  “Enough moralistic debate,” she declares.  “It’s still early and I still have part of a hangover.”  She flings a hand toward him.  “You’ve asked questions about me—I want to know more about the great Tommy Merlyn.”

He nods once at her tone, biting back a grin.  “Wow, the sarcasm is strong with this one,” is his reply.

Felicity’s eyes light up like she’s given him a gift.  “Please tell me you knew that was a _Star Wars_ reference.”  She bites down on another pretzel stick.  “I’m hungover and more than a little fragile right now.”

With a scoff, Tommy rolls his eyes.  Something tells him that no one has ever used the word _fragile_ to describe the woman in front of him.  Still, he humors her.  “I’m not living under a _rock_ , Smoak,” he replies.  “There was this theater in the Heights when I was a kid that would only play old releases, and I saw them all there.” This time he flashes her a wicked grin.  “Actually, I begged to see it so bad that Mr. Q had no choice but to take both of us.  Ollie, too.”

He earns a grin in  response—a wide, honest-to-God smile, and not a smirk.  “Thomas Merlyn, you have restored my faith in humanity,” she declares.  “For that, I thank you.”  He rolls his eyes at her formal speech pattern as she twists to place her feet on the stool next to her, leaning against the bar with a hand against her face.  “But back to the conversation at hand,” she declares.  “Tell me about yourself—and not the parts anyone in Starling City knows.  Like, the fun-loving, madly-in-love-with-Laurel-Lance, billionaire stuff.”

“I’m broke,” he blurts.  Smoak’s eyes go wide, but she says nothing, waiting for him to continue.  “My dad, he, uh… cut me off.”  Talking about it makes his hands ball into fists, and he can feel heat on his cheeks.  “He said I wasn’t doing anything with my life, and that I needed encouragement.  So he’s doing it in his typical hands-off parenting style.”  Unable to stop himself, he reaches for the bloody Mary on the bar, taking a sip from the glass.  For clarification, he adds, “My mom died when I was eight, and my dad pushed me off on the Queens while he was busy traveling across the globe.”

“That’s a shame,” is Felicity’s answer.  Her expression makes Tommy believe she means it.  “Fathers are important.”  He opens his mouth to protest, but she silences him with a hand on his arm.  “Even when they’re assholes.”  Quietly, she asks, “Have you talked to Oliver about this yet?”

With a sigh he answers, “Yeah.  I told him Saturday.”  Felicity tenses, as if that day has some weight with her.  “He told me that the club is going to be on shaky ground for the first few weeks, but he can guarantee me thirty-five K a year right now—maybe more if it goes well.  And he promised to help me move into a room at his place.”  Tommy runs a hand over his face.  “Laurel and I aren’t ready to move in together yet, and I don’t want to rush into that.

“It’s when I found out, you know,” he whispers.  Even now, it feels kind of surreal.  “I was mad, and I kicked that stupid, green box he has.”  Smoak’s eyes go wide, and Tommy nods.  “Yeah, you know about the box.”

“The Box of Island Things?” she asks, her tone grave.  “Yeah, I know about that.  You _do not_ touch the box, Merlyn.”  She motions to the entrance to the basement.  “Roy almost died when he went for the box a couple of weeks ago.”

“Roy?”

“Part brother, part friend,” Smoak explains, shrugging.  “He’s not blood, but my family took him in and now he’s just kind of my kid brother.”  Vaguely, Tommy remembers the boy in the red hoodie that she called Roy.  “He knows about Oliver’s whole vigilante thing.”  She smiles.  “He’s a mechanic by trade, but he has an ear to the ground.  No one takes a breath in this city without it getting back to him somehow.”

Nodding once, Tommy continues, “I kicked the box pretty hard, and stuff flew out of it.  One was a really old bow and—”

She nods.  “Shado’s bow.”

Frowning, Tommy wonders just how ingrained in Ollie’s vigilante business Felicity is.  She knows something about the island, which is more than _any_ of them know.  “—and the other was a scrap of green fabric.”  She nods at that, too, muttering something about Shado again.  “I just kind of put them together, and I realized that when the Arrow was around, Ollie wasn’t.  I didn’t want to believe it, but he didn’t deny it.”  Before she can bring the topic up again, he switches it.  “You said fathers were important even when they’re assholes.”  He taps the bar.  “Is that coming from experience?”

Her lips press together for a long moment before she nods.  “Your dad is Malcolm Merlyn, CEO of Merlyn Global,” she starts slowly.  Felicity sighs.  “ _My_ dad was Noah Kuttler, Ted Kord’s right hand in software R and D.”

Tommy’s eyes widen, but then he realizes he should have put it together:  Japan, 2009, and a single survivor—Noah Kuttler’s daughter.  He remembers meeting Kuttler at the house a couple of times.  Most of it has faded with time, but he does remember the guy was arrogant and condescending.

Nodding before he can say anything, Felicity releases a bitter laugh.  “You met him.”  Unable to say anything, Tommy only nods.  “Then you know.”  Her smile doesn’t quite meet her eyes as she says, “It isn’t easy being the only daughter of a world-class computer genius with no tolerance for failure.”

Though he doesn’t doubt Felicity’s words, he also recognizes that she’s become her own person—in spite of the expectations heaped on her as a child.  Maybe, just maybe, he can do that, too.  The thought makes him reach for a bottle of imported beer.  After removing the cap, he holds it up in a toast.  “To standing in the shadows of our parents,” he declares, “and to discovering ourselves anyway.”

A bright laugh escapes Smoak’s lips, but she clinks her glass against his bottle before they both take a drink.  Another thought occurs to him—one he can’t ignore.  “Okay,” he warns, waving his hands, “one more thing, and then I promise to give Ollie’s vigilante thing a chance.”  She only waits, waving a hand for him to proceed.  Somehow all that leaves his lips is, “Deathstroke.”

Smoak doesn’t even flinch, asking with a look he can’t read, “What do you want to know about him?”

Knowing where to begin would be helpful for Tommy.  So many alarm bells go off in his head every time he thinks about his _best friend_ working with a psychopath.  Only one question makes sense to offer first, though:  “Have you ever met him?”

“Once or twice,” she replies, in the same tone she used when he asked about her work for the Arrow.

Leaning across the table, he whispers, “Does he scare you?”

After considering that for a long moment, Smoak finally answers, “Do I think he’ll hurt me?  No.”  She scoffs at the thought.  “But am I afraid of him for other reasons?  Yes.”  She sips on her cocktail for a moment before pushing it away.  “He answers to no one and lives his life according to his own moral code.  I think everyone is a little scared of someone like that.  My biggest fear is that he’ll forget where the lines are drawn.”

Nodding at that answer several times, Tommy chooses to ask the most important question he has:  “Do you think he’ll hurt Ollie?”

“No.”  The word is out of her mouth in an instant, hard and unshakable.  Her certainty makes Tommy release a deep breath, even as doubt makes his stomach turn.  A moment later, Smoak clarifies, “I don’t think Deathstroke is the kind of person who has many friends.”  She sighs, expression thoughtful.  “I mean, he couldn’t.  Living a double life has to be hard—keeping one part of yourself away from everyone.”  Her fingers trace shapes into the bar, ones he doesn’t understand.  “He trusts Oliver implicitly.  I’m willing to bet it’s the closest thing he has to a friend.  He’d appreciate the value of that.”

The amount of insight she offers startles Tommy; that isn’t something she could discover after meeting the man _once or twice_.  Though he knows she won’t explain, he decides that her impressions of Deathstroke might be valuable.  “What’s he like?”

She smirks, as if hiding a secret behind that smile once again.  “Nothing like you’d expect,” is her answer, just as cryptic as the expression on her face.  Leaning across the counter, Smoak adds, “If you _really_ want to know what Deathstroke is like, ask your friend.  He knows a lot about the Vengeance of Starling.  Oliver will be able to give you a better idea of what he’s like.”

“Oliver will be able to give him a better opinion of whom?” another voice asks, and Tommy jumps a foot in the air at his friend’s presence.  One of the newer discoveries in his life is that Ollie moves as quietly as a ghost.

Tommy turns to offer a nod at his best friend, and Ollie kicks Felicity’s feet off the other bar stool, sliding into the seat himself.  He exchanges a playful smile with the blonde, who pushes the bloody Mary and bag of pretzels his way.  “Deathstroke,” she answers, causing Tommy to throw her a look.  Talking about his vigilante stuff only upsets Ollie these days—especially his slash-y partner in crime.  “Merlyn was trying to make sure you aren’t getting into bed with a monster.”  She nods to the drink and food.  “You’ll want those—best hangover cure in the world.”  She winks.  “Smoak family recipe.”

Ollie turns to meet Tommy’s eyes, and the club manager finds no trace of doubt there.  “Deathstroke is one of the best people I’ve ever met,” he declares, eyes flicking toward Felicity once.  “He isn’t afraid to stick to his beliefs—even when it’s easier not to.  He’s loyal, intelligent, and fierce when he needs to be.”  He stops to take a sip of the cocktail.  “And he’s afraid of heights, but he’ll jump through a skylight on a grappling cable anyway.”

The words are barely out of his mouth before he rounds on Felicity.  “When I woke up, you were gone,” he says in a quiet voice.  Tommy doesn’t hear any inflection in his voice, but Smoak winces all the same.

She twists a pretzel stick in her fingers.  “I kind of, _maybe_ , freaked out a little,” she answers, holding thumb and index finger a hair’s breadth apart.  They’re quiet for a long moment, but Ollie is far more patient than he used to be.  “I didn’t really think about it, but, um…”  She blows out a breath, and a strand of hair falls from her bun.  “I kind of… _panic_ when I wake up somewhere that isn’t my bed.”  She shrugs before adding, “Hypervigilance.”

It must mean something to Ollie, but to Tommy, she might as well be speaking Greek.  “You could have woken me,” is Ollie’s reply.

Felicity places a hand to his face, and Tommy is positive he doesn’t imagine his best friend leaning into her touch as he closes his eyes.  The club manager’s eyes widen; not even he and Laurel touch like that in public.  Maybe Smoak is more Ollie’s type than he thought.  “I think it was midnight when we fell asleep,” she declares.  “It was five when I woke up.  When’s the last time you slept five consecutive hours?”

Ollie’s expression is unreadable as he answers, “Saturday.”

She flushes, but she doesn’t back down.  “And before that?”

Her hand slips from his face as Ollie turns away to confess, “I don’t know.”

“ _That’s_ why I didn’t wake you,” Felicity declares in her victory.  “Sleep is precious for you.  I may not like to be alone, but I have to bite the bullet eventually.”  She shrugs it away.  “I heard Merlyn here pattering around, so I thought I’d come up here and coax stories out of your best friend.”  Her eyes widen as light dawns in them, and she slaps Ollie’s shoulder.  Tommy chuckles when the big, bad vigilante rubs his arm and protests with _ow_.  “Which reminds me—how dare you neglect to mention you saw _Star Wars_ as a kid?  I was starting to think you’ve never seen a sci-fi movie in your life!”

“Everybody has watched _Star Wars_ ,” he replies.  Turning to Tommy, he adds, “Thank you for that.”  Ollie earns a shrug and a grin in response.  After tapping the table twice, he rises to his feet.  “I think I should take you home.”  He frowns.  “Thea called me.  I think she’s in trouble— _again_.”

Felicity slugs back the rest of her cocktail.  “Duty calls,” she says to Tommy with a wink.  “I need to get to work, anyway.”  She checks her phone.  “It’s barely six—maybe I can get a run in first.”  She takes a napkin from the bar and a pen from her pocket, scribbling something on it before pushing it toward the club manager.  “If you ever need to talk about fathers or vigilante best friends or Deathstroke, give me a call.”  He glances down at it; just the word _Smoak_ and a ten-digit phone number.  “Doesn’t matter night or day.”  She rolls her eyes.  “I’m probably up.”

Both Smoak and Ollie are halfway to the door before Tommy works up the nerve.  After throwing back another gulp of beer, he follows them to call, “Hey, Smoak?”  Both she and Ollie look back, but the latter throws Tommy a wink over his shoulder and exits.

Swallowing hard, he walks up to the blonde, who adjusts a bag over her shoulder.  “I know this is going to sound weird,” he warns her, “but hear me out.”  She utters not a word, looking up at him expectantly.  “I, ah, was wondering if you’d like to do this again next Monday night.”  Her brow furrows, and he presses on, “We’re closed Mondays, so I’ll mostly be stocking shelves and crunching numbers.”  He waves his hands.  “This is not me making a pass at you.”

After a moment that feels like an eternity, she answers, “I’d like that.”  A heartbeat passes before she clarifies it.  “The cocktails on Monday night, I mean.  Not the making-a-pass part.”  She points a finger at him before turning on her heel.

“Seven, Merlyn.  Don’t be late.”

 

* * *

 

In a graceless, uncoordinated heap, Felicity collapses in her front yard, barely throwing off the motorcycle helmet before she starts heaving.  She chucks the helmet, throwing her hands out to steady herself before she begins to lose her lunch—and possibly yesterday’s too.  Whoever said a Ducati was a good idea wasn’t hungover and definitely didn’t experience Oliver’s driving.  Hello, motion sickness.

When she finally can wipe her mouth on her sleeve, a voice behind her says, “Thanks for waiting until we got here.”  She turns to find Oliver in not much better shape, pale and leaning against her shed like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.  “And for taking the helmet off.”

“Bite me, arrow boy,” she mutters in a hoarse voice.

A laugh is her answer, and she’s almost glad she said it.  “Make me, sword girl,” is his cheeky reply, and this time she can’t suppress a grin.  The chances of Oliver humoring her are small on a good day, making this a rare treat.

As much as she appreciates it, she’s a little shaky.  Has she had anything to eat in the last twelve hours other than pretzels?  Nothing comes to mind.  Her legs collapse under her when she tries to get up, and she sighs before wiping her forehead.  Perspiration comes off on her hands.  So much for that shower earlier.

Moments later, arms lock under hers, and Oliver lifts her as though she weighs nothing.  “That is definitely good for my self-esteem,” she mutters, earning a low chuckle in reply.  Her feet touch the ground, but Oliver wraps an arm around her waist to steady her.  “But I think I need to eat something—I haven’t done that since lunch yesterday.”

When Oliver looks over at her, his face is so close she can feel his breath against hers.  “Maybe you should call in sick today,” he suggests in a gentle tone.  He helps her up the porch steps slowly, allowing her to take the railing on the side.  “After all, what would we do without the Vengeance of Starling to keep the monsters away?”  Though he smiles, she can see the sincerity in his tone.  He’d really miss her if anything ever happened to her.  The concept is almost foreign.

“Probably sleep better at night,” Felicity answers anyway.

She means for it to be a joke, but when he looks at her, there’s no humor in his expression.  “They might think that at first,” he replies in a careful tone, “but they’d realize their mistake later.”  Oliver pulls away from her, but his hand still stays at his waist.  “You told me last night that you didn’t want to be a monster.”  Felicity looks away, but he offers no mercy, tilting her head back to look at him.  “My question is:  so what if you are?”  Her brow furrows as he clarifies, “Only the weak monsters in the world prey on the innocent, the people who can’t protect themselves.”  He offers a slight smile.  “Only the best ones are brave enough to battle other monsters.”

It’s enough to make her think she’s the biggest sap in the world because that sharp feeling comes to the corners of her suddenly-too-wet eyes.  Everything in her wants to hug him right now—maybe more than hug him—but she doesn’t because of the line they’ve drawn.  Sometimes that line between them is a twenty-foot wall with no footholds, but other times, like today, it’s as fragile as a line in the sand.

But, once crossed, they can never go back.

Felicity knows she isn’t ready to see what’s on the other side.

Yet.

Her hand finds his, and she squeezes it.  “Thank you, Oliver,” she answers in a tight whisper, and there are so many things she’s grateful for.  She’s grateful for a friend she can trust.  A partner she can depend upon.  A sometimes wise, old soul who understands that the shadows aren’t always black, but gray.  A man who sees every side of her—her strength, her weakness, her fear, her pain—and isn’t afraid of it.

“Anytime,” he replies—and Felicity knows he means it.

She starts to enter her house, but something pulls her back.  Felicity motions to the door, and Oliver lifts his eyebrows, waiting for whatever comes next.  “I know you have a thing with your sister,” she assures him, “but when you get done, maybe a movie and some ice cream?”  She’s forgotten how to do this; it’s been so long since she’s had a friend that she doesn’t know how to ask anymore.

A chuckle is her response as Oliver shakes his head.  “I haven’t had ice cream since before the island,” he tells her.  “I… I used to dream about it sometimes.”  They both smile at that.  His softens after a moment, but that doesn’t make it any less beautiful.  “I always said when I did it again, it would be with someone I cared about.”  If the line was fragile before, it’s a trail of dust on the pavement now.  Mercifully, he takes a step backward, waving once.  “I’ll give you a call.”  He takes the steps in a single leap before turning back.  “What kind do you want?”

“Mint chocolate chip,” she calls back, leaning against the door frame.  The grin on her face probably borders on idiotic, but she doesn’t care.  Felicity has her first friend that isn’t Roy in years.  The giddy schoolgirl in her is skipping and singing an upbeat musical.  Maybe a Disney movie is in order this morning—an upbeat, overly-bright one with lots of singing.

“Anything you want,” he replies.

For the first time in years, Felicity realizes she has exactly that.

**Author's Note:**

> **If you'd like to look at some of the inspirations for clothing and phrases in this fic, you can check out my "Monsters in the Mirror" Pinterest board[here](https://www.pinterest.com/thatmasquedgirl/monsters-in-the-mirror).**
> 
> **If you're interested delving further into Monsters...** you can check out the mood board I made on Pinterest [here](https://www.pinterest.com/thatmasquedgirl/mood-board-monsters-in-the-mirror).


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